Out of the Darkness
by Delah
Summary: On another level of the Tower, Roland makes a different choice under the mountains, and changes everything.
1. Out of the Black

Author: Delah

Author's Note: This will be a multi-chaptered story speculating on the changes that might happen if, on his next quest when he has the guns and the Horn of Eld, Roland saved Jake under the mountains in Book I of the Dark Tower series: _The Gunslinger_. I am not re-writing The Dark Tower novels: I don't have the time or the talent for that, but this alternate universe will span all seven books and include all our major characters. Constant Readers of the Dark Tower series will be able to identify the books/scenes that I'm borrowing/changing, but if you haven't read the Dark Tower series, these stories will not make much sense. But hey, if you want to keep reading, it's a free country.

FYI – Not Stephen King.

And, since I'm listening to Neil Young …

* * *

Chapter I: Out of the Black

* * *

Hundreds of years, it had been, since he'd felt it.

Since Jericho hill, where his best friend and ka-mate had fallen. Cuthbert, who'd ridden down the hill to his death laughing and blowing the horn of Eld with his bloody lips.

Ka-shume.

Still the boy clung to the trestle with one small white hand and the man in black's voice echoed above the rush of water leagues below them.

"Then I shall leave you."

Ka-shume. The breaking of a tet.

He felt the roar build in his chest, the overpowering desire to abandon the dangling boy; He saw the column of the Dark Tower etched on his mind's eye and knew he was going to rush towards Walter and abandon the boy to his death and his own soul to eternal damnation.

Could it be worth it? Could anything be worth it?

Roland felt worlds tremble about his head.

"Help me. Help me, Roland."

The Tower in his mind's eye vanished like a wisp of smoke and he saw 'Bert – Cuthbert, blowing the horn Roland now wore on his hip. Sounding his final battle cry. Ka-Shume. The loss of the last member of his lost tet – Bert the last person he had loved, centuries ago. Until this boy.

Until Jake.

Moving with the eerie, innate speed he had always possessed, the gunslinger knelt on the wooden crossties, smelling the rotten wood and rusted, rank metal. Clamped his hands with bruising strength around the boy – around _Jake's _– forearms, pulling him up roughly into his own arms. As he lifted the boy away from death he heard a great, harmonic cry of triumph. The voice of the White, that which he hadn't heard in centuries. Had never thought to hear again.

As Jake's arms closed around his neck, gripping like hoops of steel, the gunslinger looked up at the dark figure in the doorway, relishing the look of abject shock he saw there. For the first time, there was no mockery – no glee – in the creature's expression.

The man in black had run out of tricks.

Standing up slowly, balancing carefully with the extra weight of Jake in his arms, Roland shouted at the specter, his words gaining volume with every echo, until it seemed the very stones and water carried his voice and spoke with him.

"YOU LIE WITH EVERY WORD! I'll not sell my soul or betray those I love to the likes of you. I _will _catch you, phantom – ka will see to that. And when I do, you shall meet your reckoning, and answer to my hand."

The dark figure whirled and vanished like foul smoke. Roland leapt the gap in the trestle with one powerful jump, the boy clinging to him in a death grip, arms about his neck, legs about his waist, head buried in the gunslinger's shoulder.

Finally his boots touched stone and he pulled himself out of the blackness, blinking like a newborn child at the glorious light. He stumbled up in to the gap in the mountains, boots sending up puffs of white dust.

The feeling of Ka-shume was ebbing. Carried away with the stench of decay under the mountains.

Staggering, Roland lowered himself to the ground, his back against a large stone. The breath of a fresh breeze seemed to do what the light could not, and the boy raised his head slowly from the gunslinger's shoulder, eyes wet and wide and wonder struck.

Blue eyes stared in disbelief at the place around them. Then those eyes, which had assessed the gunslinger so coolly outside the way station, fixed on Roland's own.

"I thought-" the boy swallowed, pale cheeks and wounded eyes saying it clearly enough; the boy expected to have reached the clearing by now. " I believed … you w-were" -- lips firmed, voice controlled -- "I believed that you were going to let me fall."

He slipped one of his killer's hands across the boy's soft, unscarred cheek. The feeling of ka-shume was gone. But the call of the White – that he still heard. Aye, he heard it very well.

"For a moment, I believed I would, too." He felt Jake tense against him, placed his other hand on the boy's slim shoulder. Gods, he was so small!

"At being good, I've always been a little too slow." A small, bitter smile bloomed at the corner of his mouth. Thinking of Susan. Alain. David. His mother, Gabrielle. Scores of others. "And I'll always bear watching." He held the boy's eyes and Jake watched him solemnly, not wincing despite the painful pressure the gunslinger was bearing on his shoulder.

"But I'd not lose you, Jake. No matter how many worlds there are."

He could feel the boy's tears against his rough palms as he held Jake's face in his hands, knew his own tears were falling into the boy's dusty blonde hair. For long moments they simply clung to each other, feeling the radiance of their new _ka_.

Finally the boy raised his head, wiped the last tears from his cheeks, and smiled. Smiled for the first time in weeks.

"You brought us out of the darkness." Jake held the gunslinger's right hand between his own small ones. "You brought us _both_ out of the darkness. This …"

The boy – Jake – trailed off, eyes staring far away, looking at something Roland couldn't see. Something given to him by The Touch, mayhap. Then Jake looked at him again, and Roland could see the wonder in his eyes.

"Roland … this changes _everything._"

* * *

More Authors Notes: This entire story was written before The Gunslinger Born comic series had completed the first arc with Susan, so references to that medium will be few and/or nonexistent. On that topic: I'm not calling Aileen a Mary Sue/self insertion by Robin Furth – yet.

Because Roland saving Jake's life is the pivotal moment in this story that changes the outcome of the series, there's a lot more Jake and Roland in this story than Eddie or Susannah, although they *are* in later chapters and in their familiar roles.


	2. Into the Blue

Author: Delah

Disclaimer: Not mine. I don't have the heart of a little boy …

Notes: A filler scene between The Gunslinger and The Drawing of the Three we never got to see because Roland was exhausted and Jake was, well, dead.

* * *

Chapter II – Into the Blue

* * *

Neither of them wanted to sleep in the place of bones; with the unspoken agreement of those who shared _khef_ they shouldered their water bags and turned their backs to the mountains that had almost destroyed them.

By the time they had reached the beach the sun was sinking into the sea, and the beauty of it – or perhaps just the sight of all that water after the endless desert – struck something in the gunslinger. Something that had not moved or thought or felt for hundreds of years.

"Wow," The boy breathed, his eyes filling with the light of the setting sun. He was pale – from the long, dark time under the mountains, no doubt – but the orange shone on his soft cheek. The gunslinger remembered how the boy had looked back at the light as they had disappeared into the darkness of the mountains. Remembered seeing the reflection of the dying of the light on Jake's smooth face. Remembered that that was when he had become determined to distance himself from the boy Walter and _ka_ had placed in his path.

For a moment, Roland wondered what would have been, if he had allowed Jake to die. Had damned himself. He had come so close -- what charms, what poisoned thoughts, would have haunted him then? What dreadful price would he ultimately have had to pay – either at the Tower, or before it?

"What's it called?" the boy asked, eyes still trained on the waves. The sound of the boy's voice jarred Roland from his unusual introspection. The decision was made, the path chosen, and they could only go forward. With every step, he heard the voice of the White, confirming his choice.

"The Western Sea, I believe." The gunslinger smiled briefly at the awestruck boy. "You act as if you've never seen such before."

"Well, the Atlantic – New York Harbor – but … it's so empty here! There's nothing – no ships, no islands … no _people_. It's like we're the last two people in the world."

Roland nodded, wondering if the boy recognized what he had just said – the memories and words of Jake's other life that had come slipping through the cracks. "Mayhap we are … in this part of the world, at least." He could feel weariness stealing over him, dragging at his limbs, whispering to him to rest. His body felt weary indeed. "We should camp. Sleep. And make tracks tomorrow."

The boy glanced up at him, eyes guarded and assessing. "Tracks towards what?"

Roland nodded his head further along the beach. "Whatever's there."

'_Three. That is the number of your fate. The first is young, dark haired.'_

Jake accepted Roland's answer without argument, and Roland wondered at the boy's faith in him. The Touch had forewarned Jake again and again as they had neared the Man in Black, yet he had stayed with the gunslinger. Ka.

* * *

Jake knew the gunslinger was keeping something from him. Something important, but he didn't want to push.

Despite the fact that Roland had saved him, had embraced him and kissed him on the forehead and promised to protect him, Jake still felt a little odd around the man. Those weeks after their initial meeting with the Man in Black – as the gunslinger regarded Jake himself as a pawn on a chessboard – had been hellish for the boy.

He had had no one else; without the gunslinger he would die. But – consider the paradox, the Catch-22 – it seemed the closer they got to Walter that he would die _because_ of the gunslinger. And the worst of it – the very worst of it, even beyond the miserable anticipation of the gunslinger's betrayal, was that Jake loved him. Wasn't even really sure _why_, had loved him even as he'd watched Roland distance himself with seemingly no remorse or hesitation. Was it because of what Roland called _ka_?

He thought so. Knew so. Knew something else as well; Roland loved him, too. Had never really doubted it, which was really rather funny, considering the other things he'd known – or thought he'd known – about the gunslinger.

And so Roland was keeping secrets again, but this time was different – there was none of the choking blackness that had buzzed in the gunslinger's thoughts like last time. Jake could live with that – he had lived with far worse.

Jake figured that secrets were just part of Roland's nature.

He shook his head a little to clear his thoughts and caught the man watching him, closely, face impassive. The sun loomed, large and radiant, across the water. The boy ignored the gunslinger for a moment, eyes trained on the setting sun. Felt the certainty rise in him and words were out of his mouth before he'd been sure what he was going to say.

"We shouldn't sleep here. We can't. It's not safe." Hours before he'd been pleading with the man and now he sounded like he was delivering ultimatums, but Jake knew what he knew. "We need to go up, further away from the water." He glanced at the gunslinger a little uncertainly.

He didn't remember much of his previous life, even though things sometimes slipped out (The Atlantic?) but he did know that adults didn't like being told what to do. Especially by kids. But Roland simply nodded, continuing to watch Jake speculatively.

"How do you know?"

And that was the sixty-four thousand dollar question, wasn't it? But Jake himself didn't know _how_ he knew. He just did, as he'd known of the gunslinger's efforts to depersonalize him.

"I don't know how. I just know I'm right." And boy -- that might have sounded conceited, but he could feel the conviction with every breath in his body.

"All right." The gunslinger nodded towards a spot on the rockier part of the beach, perhaps thirty feet above where the sand indicated the high tide line. "We'll bunk there."

Jake nodded, the feeling of disbelief and unreality that he'd carried with him ever since Roland had pulled him off the trestle receding even further. Whatever the gunslinger had been prepared to do, in the end he had saved Jake's life. Despite his intuition, Jake had only the dimmest idea of how much that decision to delay his moment of reaching Walter and the Tower had cost Roland. Now, the same certainty that had convinced him that they did not want to sleep near the water convinced him again; he didn't have to be afraid of the gunslinger anymore.

* * *

The boy fell asleep quickly after they'd made camp, wrapped up in one of the old blankets from the way station. Roland watched him sleep, as he'd watched him at the way station, in the desert, and under the mountains. Perhaps it was just a fancy, but Roland thought a shadow had disappeared from the boy's face. Mayhap it had gone with the one that had clouded the gunslinger's heart for so long.

He watched the bottom arc of the sun sink into the endless water, thinking of Walter, the Man in Black. He was nowhere near them now, but the knowledge didn't upset him. Jake was meant to be with him – the feelling of ka-shume under the mountains had convinced Roland of what he had tried to deny, as he had tried to deny the boy – they were ka-tet. And the others of which the Oracle had spoken – the Prisoner and the Lady – would join them in that ka-tet. Whatever information Walter could have offered, it could never compensate for the deliberate betrayal of one of his own. And the boy was … extraordinary. He –

"Did-a-chick? Dod-a-chum?"

Roland stared in amazement and horror at the thing the waves had cast upon the beach, with their serrated claws, sharp beaks and eyes quivering on stalks. Scores of them jostled in the sand, uttering plaintive cries – then stilling, raising their lethal claws as each wave receded. Roland watched, his blood and mind cold as he considered the creatures below him and the boy asleep beside him.

"If Jake wasn't here, I'd have fallen asleep closer to the water. Close enough for yon monsters to approach. Aye, perhaps. And then …"

He shoved the thought away. What mattered is not what _might_ have happened but what had; none of the creatures came within twenty feet of the two of them.

"Did a chick? Dod a chock?"

And the boy had known – not _what_, exactly, but had known that sleeping down by the beach would be dangerous. Even Roland, with centuries of experience, had not. The gunslinger had suspected the boy possessed the Touch, that rare gift of telepathy and empathy, of foresight and intuition that was so valuable and so very, very rare. And now he knew. The creatures continued their endless questions, but the boy didn't stir; he was a deep sleeper indeed.

Finally, once he was sure the creatures would approach no closer, he unbuckled his guns, laying them beside him … next to the horn of Eld. This last he took in his hands for a moment, remembering the sound as Cuthbert blew on it. Like the sound of a wave breaking on the shore.

Wearied, he fell asleep quickly that night, and as Jake slept beside him, the gunslinger dreamt of Cuthbert, smiling at him.

* * *

Author's Notes: Roland retains all his digits on this level of the Tower! I have always personally viewed Roland's loss of his fingers and toe by the lobstrosities as karmic payback for letting Jake die. Not that Roland didn't suffer a lot of other repercussions for Jake's death too …

I decided to post these two chapters together because they're relatively short. The next will have more action … and some Eddie.


	3. New York, New York

Author: Delah

Disclaimer: These characters do not/have not/will not ever belong to me.

Summary: When Roland saves Jake's life under the mountains, he changes everything. We start seeing more repercussions in _The Drawing of the Three._

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* * *

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* * *

_

"You can't know that. Listen kid, I want to go back, too. You have no fucking clue. But you can't believe –"

"Eddie, you're not listening!" The boy stood in front of the door, the last weird portal on this hellish stretch of Lobstrosity Beach. Come for the sand, stay for the monsters. Behind them 'Detta – it was 'Detta now, no doubt about it – cackled at them.

Eddie's eyes flickered over to the woman bound in her wheelchair. Odetta was in there, somewhere. He believed that. Had to believe that.

"It's not a question of whether I want to go. I need to go. I'm supposed to go." Jake turned away from him to face Ol' Long, Tall and Ugly. Looked at him solemnly. "I'm not going to split, Roland, if that's what you're thinking. But I have to go through that door."

"This is so fucked up!" Eddie screamed at them. With an effort, he gained control of himself, speaking to the gunslinger now. Eddie still wasn't sure how he felt about the man who had kidnapped him from the world he knew, but knew that Roland was the one he had to convince. As Harry Truman might have said, here the buck stopped with Roland fucking Deschain.

"We almost got blown away at Balazar's. Remember? That may be a regular day at the office for you, but not us. You can't take him with you. He could get lost, he could get hurt."

It wasn't just sour grapes. Yeah, Eddie was a bit pissed that Roland hadn't let him set a toe through the last door – the one they'd pulled Odetta through – and was evidently considering letting Jake saunter through this one. But it was more than that. Eddie genuinely cared about Jake, and whatever was behind that door was bound to be dangerous. There'd been a junkie behind door number one and a schizo behind door number two, so the prize behind door number three was probably some homicidal whack job like Pol Pot or Idi Amin. And Eddie didn't want to risk that. There were only three people with him in this purgatory: Roland, who he wanted to kill half the time, Odetta/Detta, who wanted to kill _him_ half the time, and Jake, who didn't want to kill him and, once you got past his hero worship of Roland, wasn't a bad kid. "Jake, you could be killed."

A smile that was far too adult flickered across the boy's face. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Eddie shuddered. During the long stretch between his door and Odetta's, while he'd been in the agony of withdrawal, Roland had hypnotized the kid. Eddie had listened, fascinated, horrified, half convinced this was all some delusion, as Jake recounted the story of his death in New York. At the end, when the gunslinger had given him the choice, Jake had chosen to remember his previous life and death. God only knew why. Eddie wasn't sure _he_ could stand to remember what it felt like to be run down in the street.

He shivered in the strengthening wind, goose bumps flashing across his skin. Behind him, Detta cackled at the white sky.

"Roland, I nearly killed you last time when you wouldn't let me through, and now you're going to let him go through?" Eddie pointed at the boy standing next to the inexplicable door. "He's eleven fucking years old!"

"Eddie," -- and he felt like screaming because no kid who hadn't successfully jacked off yet should be able to sound so all fire certain about anything, and had he been this much of a pain in the ass to Henry? Had he? – " I need to do this. I'm supposed to go through that door."

"You can't know that! How do you know that?"

* * *

Roland watched as Jake's temper, strained from the constant battle of wills between the Gunslinger and Eddie, pushed to the brink by his own argument with Eddie, snapped. In that moment, Jake reminded him so much of Alain – quiet, calm, good natured Alain, whose rare fits of temper even Roland had feared – that Roland's heart hurt.

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't _KNOW_! Is that what you want to hear, Eddie?" The boy's yell echoed against the low cliffs and rocks surrounding them. "Do you think I have the slightest clue what's going on here, Eddie? You said it yourself: I am eleven fucking years old. Some asshole pushed me in front of a Cadillac and I _died._ I woke up in the middle of the freaking Sahara with no one until Roland showed up!" His voice dropped as he strove to regain control, and some part of the gunslinger was amused at the look of astonishment on Eddie's face. It was twin to Cuthbert's, really, the few times 'Bert had pushed Alain too far.

"And I went with him –" Jake pointed at Roland without looking, eyes glaring at Eddie, "because I didn't know what else to do!" Face flushed, voice rising again. As angry as a hornet's nest. "I don't _have_ the answers you want. There only two things I know right now. Number one: Roland and I are supposed to go through that door. And you're not. I know it with every beat of my heart. And number two." Jake took a deep breath, cheeks scarlet, voice finally lowering to somewhere around normal. "You are really pissing me off right now."

* * *

"You know who he is."

"Yes. God, yes." All the color had drained from the boy's face; despite his deep tan he looked ill. "That's the son of a bitch that pushed me into the street." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unable to take his eyes off of Roland/Mort.

The gunslinger nodded Jack Mort's head. Luckily enough, Mort had fainted soon after the gunslinger had entered his consciousness and seen the monster that lurked behind the third door.

He'd walked through the door alone, knowing that Jake was right, that the boy was supposed to go with him, but only when they were alone. Jake and Eddie had made it clear that a boy appearing out of thin air on a crowded street corner (or on a subway, or at a restaurant) would cause questions, even in New York.

He'd entered Mort's mind right when the man had been working on his scrapbook, pudgy white fingers pasting a news article on a green page. "Boy, 11, killed on 9th Avenue." And then, "John Chambers, 11, was killed on Tuesday, May 9, at the corner of –"

He'd seen into the man's mind, realization blooming inside him – about Walter, about Jake, himself. He'd seen the connection to Odetta and Detta in the man's mind as well, and understood. He could only hope that Eddie would not be so beguiled by Odetta that he would forget the she-monster that lurked within and untie the woman with two faces.

The march up Lobstrosity Beach (or so Eddie had named it) had been long. Not endless, as Eddie had declared (and at which Jake had snorted and told Eddie that if he wanted to see an endless stretch of sand, to try the desert) but long and taxing. The Lady of Shadows had been with them, but it was Detta they saw the most often, who tricked and taunted and thwarted them at every turn. Even bound to the wheelchair as she was, the danger Detta Walker presented was real enough to keep the three of them constantly on their guard. Roland had recognized the ruthlessness in Detta, had been in her mind, more intimately and completely than he liked … had seen the darkness in her.

But there was hope, with Detta. If the two could be merged into one, the intelligence and humanity of Odetta with her counterpart's ruthlessness and sheer fighting will, she would be formidable. Eddie's affection for Odetta could help also, cementing his reluctant place in the tet. Ka had made itself known – Eddie was a part of them however much he might not wish it and would not be able to rebel – either against Ka or against Roland -- but it would be easier for all if Eddie became agreeable. Odetta, Roland suspected, could play a part in that.

Before the uncharacteristic thoughts of what _might_ be overtook the gunslinger, Jake's voice interrupted.

"He's supposed to come with us? Be a member of our – what you call a ka-tet?"

It was obvious from the tone of the boy's voice that he had no enthusiasm for the idea. Roland could hardly blame him.

"No, I don't believe so. We'd not want a one such as this at our backs."

He saw the relief in Jake's eyes and gave him a small smile, but the boy didn't respond. Perhaps found it impossible to return the expression to the face of the man who had murdered him only a few days prior – according to the time of this world. Roland couldn't really blame him for that, either.

"No, he'll not be ka-tet, but ka sent us to him for a reason – particularly Odetta. But there are other things to be tended to, first." The gunslinger looked around Mort's empty apartment. Such decadence! To Roland, who had spent centuries in the wilderness, and for whom refined civilization had died with Gilead, it was incredibly luxurious.

To Jake, who had spent most of the first eleven years of his life on the Upper East Side, where most men pulled down at least ten million a year after taxes (those who didn't have accounts in the Caymans, anyway) it was moderately comfortable, if a bit small. And neat as a pin. Jack Mort might have been a sociopath, but at least he was a clean one. Just standing here in his ragged jeans and dirty shirt, his hair almost touching his shoulders, Jake felt filthy. And out of place. Which reminded him –

"If we're going out on the streets, I need to change – at least my shirt, anyway." The boy scowled down at himself. "I'm covered in sand and whole lot of other crud. People might not notice because it's New York, but …" The boy trailed off, but Roland understood. _Might_ not did not mean _would_ not. And while people might excuse it because Jake was a child, they might also demand more answers _because_ Jake was a child, and adults demanded information of children they wouldn't have dreamed of requiring from other adults.

Roland nodded and Jake disappeared into the man's bedroom, searching for a shirt that wouldn't look too conspicuously big on him. He came out wearing a blue button down that came down nearly to his knees; he'd had to roll up the sleeves to fit them on his wrists. Roland bit back a smile. A gunslinger in training he might be, but Jake _was_ small for his age. The boy had topped off his long blonde with what the Mortcypedia labeled a Yank—ees cap. Roland had once known a man named Yank, who had hung himself with his own belt after killing his brother over a whore, but he did not mention this to Jake. Whatever manner a creature a Yank—ee was, the little hat with their sigul covered the boy's hair up nicely (it needed a wash) once he'd adjusted the little band in the back.

Jake glanced around the sparse apartment, frowning. "Do you think a lady lives here?"

Roland shrugged. "It doesn't appear that way. Why?"

"Because Mort's got a whole drawer full of ladies underwear in his dresser."

Roland filed the information away, then moved on to more important information. "I need ammunition," the gunslinger said. "And more importantly, we need more guns. One for Eddie, one for Odetta, and one for you." The boy nodded, his face thoughtful. "We'll need to find a gun shop nearby, then. We know Mort's got money – I'll need a twenty, too. I have to buy something." This knowledge had entered Jake's mind fully formed as he spoke.

"I'll look in the phone book. And if the bastard in your head wakes up, he can help you. You can make him help you." The boy looked up, grim pleasure on his young, fair face. "Was he scared, you know, when you wouldn't talk to him? When you took him over – hi-jacked him? Eddie said he thought he was going looney tunes the first time you talked to him in his head."

The gunslinger nodded. "If I didn't control his body, he'd have pissed his clouts."

Jake answered with a gunslinger's satisfied smile.

* * *

He sprinted down the street away from the vacant lot with his twisted ankle humming in pain, his head pounding, the bag with the books he'd bought at the Manhattan Restaurant of the Mind banging against his side as he ran all out. Every footstep hurt like a slap, not so much because of his twisted ankle or bloody head but because every running step was another step away from the rose. His mind still tried to grasp all the wonder and power he had just witnessed even as he skidded around another crowded corner, almost barreling into a fat lady standing in front of a deli.

He'd left Roland immediately after they'd left Jack Mort's apartment. The gunslinger hadn't liked it, and in truth Jake hadn't liked it much either, but they both had jobs ka wanted done that day, and they'd known it was best to do them separately. So Roland headed for the gun store ('_Clements,'_ Jake's mind whispered as he leapt over a baby stroller, still sprinting).

And Jake had … had what? Followed something. Some call, some force, some power that had – well, it had _drawn_ him. Like a bird flying south in the winter. Had drawn him first to the bookstore with Aaron Deepneau and Calvin Tower ("Which word is profanity in your language, oh Hyperborean Wanderer?") and to the books, _Charlie the Choo Choo_ and _Riddle De Dum!_ These he'd paid for with a twenty from Jack Mort's wallet, and Jake couldn't stop (and didn't try) the hot burst of pleasure that went through him when he handed the twenty over with Alexander Hamilton's face on the front; he knew damn well he was making a purchase that was vitally important to Roland's quest and their lives, and it pleased him that he was using that murdering bastard Jack Mort's money to do it. He'd almost told Tower to keep the change when the store owner had offered him a bag to carry his purchases in.

Then after leaving the bookstore – and going back in – and leaving _again_, he'd felt that pull in his head and his heart, only stronger. Like the crescendo of a musical piece, every chord and every note striking louder and faster. Compelled, he'd run to the lot on 43rd. Climbed over the fence. Fallen. Twisted his ankle, which was now throbbing far more painfully. And then seen …

The Rose.

Oh, God, the Rose.

Still running, swerving around an old man with a walker and a young couple not much older than him holding hands, Jake wiped his eyes, brushing away the tears that had stung their corners as he thought of the Rose. The choir. The purple grass. He ran fast, breath rasping heavily in and out of his lungs, hair falling in his eyes – he'd left the Yankees cap in the lot; it must have fallen off when he'd touched the rose, fainted, and banged his head on the bricks. He watched the sidewalk in front of him, moving with the eerie, sure footed speed of a boy who had not yet begun his first awkward pubescent growth spurt, but in his mind and his heart, he was back in the Lot.

Back with the Rose.

He'd woken up to the sound of the choir – muted, but still lovely, still there – and then Roland's voice in his head. Loud and clear, 10-4, good buddy, as his almost friend Stan would have said. The Gunslinger's voice ordering him to the corner of 5th and 37th street in five minutes.

He didn't have a watch. He'd been wearing one on his way to school when this whole mess started, but it had disappeared when he had, well, died. Without one, he wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd left the Lot. He sprinted, feet pounding, elbows pumping, Mort's blue shirt bellowing out behind him even as the high humming of the rose resounded in his head.

* * *

Roland saw the boy (he'd lost his cap) round the corner at an all out sprint, glance around, and head towards the possemen's car-mobile without a second glance. The sweat on Jake's shirt and the disheveled look on his face made it obvious that the boy had run from whatever errand ka had sent him on, and he'd been fast; Roland hadn't had to sit in the posseman's wagon for more than a moit of minutes.

The boy opened the door and collapsed into the seat next to the gunslinger, breathing heavily, pulling a bag of some sort of material Roland couldn't identify on to his lap.

"You finished what you came for?" The boy nodded, chest heaving. Roland remembered the races Cort would send them on in the babby forest, races which Cuthbert had almost always won. In those instances, Roland's legs had not proved to be as quick as his hands.

"Yes." The Gunslinger would have asked more, but there was no time. He had to trust in Jake, in the boy's Touch.

An unholy din of threats and pleas filled the mind the gunslinger shared with Mort: Roland could feel Mort's shock and horror in his head as the creature viewed the boy he'd murdered less than a week earlier.

'_He's dead, He's dead! He's a ghost! This isn't happening! It isn't happening! Oh Jesus, Oh --'_

"SILENCE!" Roland snarled at the panicked voice.

"Now what?" Jake asked, his color starting to return to normal.

"Now we return to the Christopher Street Station where Mort pushed Odetta in front of a train." Mort's howls resumed at this, but Roland ignored them. "He'll drive this carriage there." A pause. "Mort's awake."

Jake's eyes iced over.

"Is he?"

"Yar. And he's terrified of you. He believes you to be a ghost."

Jake laughed. "Tell the bastard that if he doesn't take us where we need to go, I'll come back and haunt him every day for the rest of his life." Both of them knowing that, whatever happened, this was going to be the last of Jack Mort's days on earth.

Ka.

* * *

Roland/Mort doubled parked on the street, Roland's eyes coming out in Mort's face as the gunslinger reasserted control. The man behind the wheel turned to the boy sitting beside him, shopping bag on his lap. While Mort had driven, Jake had filled the bag Tower had given him with their gunna and now, in addition to the two books, it held the shells Roland had taken from Clements as well as the standard police issue guns he had stolen from the world's gunslingers and the leftover money from Mort's wallet.

"You understand what we have to do?"

Jake nodded, lips firm, eyes serious. "I'm ready."

Roland nodded, glad for the moment he was dealing with Jake and not Eddie. Both were destined to be gunslingers, but Eddie would have had to – _had_ to – made a joke by this point.

Jake maneuvered over the seat, the bag crinkling as he got closer to Mort. Roland place one of the man's hands on the boy's shoulder and felt the deep shudder in the small frame. The last time Jack Mort had touched Jake Chambers, he had pushed him to his death.

Jake nodded and Roland pushed the wagon's door open with one hand even as he pushed Mort deep into his mind and looped an arm around Jake's neck.

"He's got a hostage!"

Jake could hear the policeman's cry as Roland/Mort dragged him down the cement stairs of the subway station.

The arm around his neck was not painful; the gunslinger was allowing him enough room to breathe. More disconcerting was the barrel of the policeman's issue pressed against his temple. He knew it was necessary for them to get away, for the hostage situation to work, but a part of him was chilled to feel the metal against his skin, to be caught in the arms of one man who had almost killed him and another man who _had_ killed him. At the same time, another part of him marveled at the ease with which the Gunslinger did this, and wondered if Roland had done this before.

They maneuvered their way down the stairs, people scattering like quail away from the Certified Public Accountant and his schoolboy hostage. Roland vaulted the turnstiles, lifting Jake with ease and then they were on the platform, the rumbling and whining announcing the arrival of the fabled A Train, drowning out the screams and cries of the bystanders and yells of the policemen.

"Go through the door the instant I tell you. The instant!" Jake nodded, bracing himself as Roland backed them up past the safety line and then ("Oh my God, he's jumping!") leapt onto the tracks into the path of the incoming train now bearing down on them on its steel tracks.

Jake thought he could hear Mort screaming in his head as Roland cried out to Odetta to look, thought he could hear her scream of recognition as she did – and then Roland seized his arm and the two of them – Gunslinger and boy – tumbled together through the door between the worlds. And before the door swung shut Jake heard – with his ears and that part of him that saw other things, felt other things, the part of him that Roland called the Touch – the indescribable sound of Jack Mort being cut in half.

He pitched through the door in a kind of clumsy, half assed somersault and rolled twice before fetching up in the rough sand beside Odetta/Detta's wheelchair. Suddenly Eddie was there, and Roland, tugging him out of the way as they watched the beautiful dark skinned woman separate and then – merge, whipping against the ropes binding her to her chair. Clutching the bag filled with bullets, guns, and books, Jake felt it – they all felt it – as the woman who had been two became one.

Watched as Eddie, with tears in his eyes, dropped to his knees beside her chair.

He could feel the weight of the bag in his arm, and the comforting pressure of the gunslinger's hands on his shoulders. And in his mind, as the woman and Eddie embraced, Jake thought he could hear the song of the rose rising above the voices of the lobstrosities and the sound of the Western Sea.

* * *

Author Notes:

Obviously, I mixed a few things around in this version. I changed the timing of Roland's entry into Mort's mind – from a few days prior to Mort's murder of Jake to a few days afterwards. I believe ka always wanted Roland to get Jake back, and the door opened to the corresponding time that would help him accomplish that. Since, in my version, Jake is already with Roland, Roland could still use Mort to deal with Odetta/Detta and run his other errands. Ka simply changed the timeline a little: Jake is officially dead in New York but not Mid-World. Obviously ,this will have big consequences in book three, _The Wastelands_, and beyond.

Because Roland never got bitten by the Lobstrosities in the previous chapter of my story, he wasn't injured/dying when he first met Eddie. Therefore, he didn't need to go to Katz's drugstore to get the Keflex, just to get the guns/ammunition (he didn't have wet bullets but couldn't turn down more weapons).

Last, I still had to make sure Jake did two important things: get the books (meeting Calvin Tower in the process) and see The Rose. Since Mort's timeline is almost identical to Jake's I simply had Jake run his errands from the day he plays hooky a few weeks earlier.

Next chapter: Lud. Rhymes with crud. Not a good sign.


	4. So fell Lord Perth

Author: Delah

Disclaimer: The fact that these characters do not belong to me is never going to change.

Summary: Warning: This chapter contains the attempted rape of a child (Emphasis: attempted) by an adult. **This is not a topic introduced lightly**. It is included because I believe King made it very clear in _The Wastelands_ exactly what "purpose" Jake and other young boys would serve in the city of Lud. Aunt Talitha, Gasher, Tick Tock and Roland all obliquely or directly reference the use of children (particularly young boys) as sexual currency. Until Tick Tock got sidetracked by Jake's watch, circuits, and computers, all foreshadowing indicated that this was the direction Jake's captivity was going to take. In _this _story, Jake is not wearing his watch in Lud and Tick Tock does not get sidetracked. Again: I am not writing this topic for kicks but because I honestly believe that there is foreshadowing for the topic in _The Wastelands_ itself. I promise I will not let anything too horrible happen to Jake in this chapter. The poor boy's been through enough already.

* * *

"Come here, cully. I want a better look at you."

Gasher shoved him forward roughly. Jake stumbled and would have fallen if the Tick Tock Man hadn't grasped his shoulders. Jake could feel the phenomenal strength there. If Tick Tock pulled, he could snap Jake's collarbones like pencils. If he shoved, he could probably break Jake's back.

Jake flushed under the frank, assessing look in those wicked green eyes. The color in the boy's cheeks deepened as Tick Tock's massive hands followed his eyes, wandering over Jake's face, shoulders and upper body. He felt like a slave on the auction block – or a horse being inspected for sale – and behind him he could feel Gasher's lecherous, oozing grin.

The Tick Tock Man fisted a hand in Jake's blonde hair – dusty now, and clogged with sweat from his forced sprint through Lud – and jerked.

"Who are you, cully?" The voice was only faintly curious, but Jake was sure that the Tick Tock Man was far more interested than he was letting on. Aunt Talitha had warned the ka-tet that both sides of Lud's Civil War would want Jake badly … and although Roland and the old lady had both done their damndest, with Jake sitting right there, to dance around the reason _why_, Jake was no fool.

The hand not clenched in Jake's hair grasped his bitten left hand. Jake clenched his teeth, waiting for the excruciating pain when the huge hand squeezed – but the sausage sized fingers only squeezed his naked wrist.

The ruler of the Grays looked at the boy for an interminable moment, then moved his gaze (though not his hands) from Jake to Gasher.

"You said he was the hardcases' squint."

Gasher nodded with a slavish desire to please. "Ay, Ticky, very true. Look at the cully – only one use for such a pretty as him." The moronic assurance on Gasher's face began to flag as Tick-Tock continued to look at him. "Just look at 'im! Pert as he is, only thing he's good for!"

"No," Tick Tock replied, hand tightening in Jake's hair until his scalp screamed. "No marks on his neck, no experience in his eyes. And more trig in one finger than you have in your entire scabbed body, Gasher. He's a berry. A fresh one, I'll set my watch and warrant on it."

The massive man tugged Jake closer and the boy shuddered at the growing expression in the man's eyes. "Ay, he's fresh." One hand stroked down his cheek, an affectionate gesture that reminded Jake of the rare times Roland had done the same thing. But some deep part of him rejected the comparison, because the gunslinger had never watched him with such a feral expression in his eyes, had never made Jake's skin crawl with a mere fingertip of a touch.

Tick Tock only smiled at Jake's shudder, and even before the man opened his mouth, Jake knew what he was going to say. Would have set his watch and warrant on it.

"Gasher, take the boy to my room. We'll finish our palavar later. I'm going to make use of our new young friend, and see what secrets he holds. If the hardcase was saving him for something, more fool him." He nodded.

With that, the Tick Tock Man shoved Jake back into Gasher's infested arms. "And don't stop and take a treat on the way, Gasher, or I'll know." He smiled, lust sparking in his eyes. "But maybe I'll let you watch. Later."

"No!" Jake struggled desperately in Gasher's arms as the pirate half dragged him, half carried him from the assembled Grays. But no matter how much he struggled, twisted, and fought, he knew he wasn't going to get away.

* * *

Roland had barely had a chance to inspect the metal door that led to the cradle of the Grays before Jake's cry sounded through his ears and his mind. Oy heard it too and whined low back in his throat. It wasn't a cry of pain, Roland was positive … but it _had_ been a cry of fear. Jake had faced death in his own world and had almost died under the mountains, but Roland had never heard such a note of desperation in the boy's voice before.

"What are they doing to him?"

He shoved the thought away. It didn't help solve the problem immediately before him: how to open the metal door and ambush the Grays on the other side. But the distraction could not be banished entirely and he couldn't help but picture them on the other side of the door, trying to flay Jake alive, break the boy's bones, or …

"_The squint. Gimme the squint and the rest of you go free."_

'Squint' could simply mean a young boy, but its most common usage – it's meaning in the low speech – meant a boy who provided pleasure to adults. A child prostitute and slave to whatever adult owned and used him.

Rage burned through Roland's blood like a fever but he pushed it back. Battle fever could not help him quite yet. Could not help Jake. And Jake was what mattered; getting him back alive and before Gasher and Tick Tock and the others had –

Oy whined again, perhaps hearing the worry in Roland's own thoughts. The gunslinger watched the Bumbler for a moment with his cool blue eyes before gesturing to the animal.

"Oy, come here. For Jake's sake, come here."

* * *

The cold circle of metal locked around Jake's left wrist.

Gasher leered at him, his repulsive face inches away from Jake's own. "There y'are, my dear. Snug's a bug n'a rug. Ticky'll split you open, but you'll not get away 'for he's done w'ya." One scabrous hand rubbed Jake's chest, pressing against the blue, too large shirt Jake had taken from Jack Mort's closet an eternity ago.

The boy swallowed as Gasher grinned at him, revealing rotting stumps of teeth and an oozing tongue. Death … death might be preferable to this.

"Roland," he thought – almost prayed. "If you're still out there – please, come soon. Please."

His wrist was burning; the boy hadn't even realized he'd vainly been trying to wrench his hand free.

"Struggle all ye want, dearie – but save some for Ticky. It'll please 'im all the more if you're a rough fuck, small as ye are." The creature's hands pressed painfully on Jake chest, just above his heart. "And ye won't be alone. Never think it. I'll be right outside, listening to Ticky break ye in." Gasher's gray eyes laughed at him.

Warm blood dripping down his cuffed, bitten hand, Jake forced himself to hold the man's gaze, trying to remember the last time he had been this terrified. And failing. Not even on the railroad trestle, when he'd thought for a moment that Roland wasn't going to rescue him. Was going to let him fall. Let him die. In the end, of course, the gunslinger had saved him, had pulled him off the trestle. Had saved him from another death. But as Gasher left the room with a cheery departing wave, Jake couldn't stop the bitter thought from forming in his mind.

Death … would have been better than this.

* * *

He heard the words as clearly as if the boy had spoken them right in his ear as he shot down another Gray, this one with his trademark yellow scarf tied around his boot.

Oy snarled on his right and Roland let his fingers and hands do their malign magic, watched them deal death with ease and without regret – but surely if any deserved death, it was creatures such as these.

Child snatchers and monsters they were and the world was well shut of them.

When Oy had jumped through the metal grille and pushed – well, nosed – the button that released the valve lock and allowed Roland entrance into the Cradle of the Grays, only half of the group Jake had initially met – Hoots, Brandon and Tilly – had remained in the main room of the inner chamber. It took less than two seconds for Roland to drop them like a wind, every sense on alert, following the bumbler as he sniffed out Jake's trail.

It wasn't too late, Roland could sense that. Yet the boy's thoughts, broadcast into Roland's mind by their shared khef, Jake's powerful Touch, or both – echoed hollowly at the edge of Roland's battle mind.

"Death … would have been better than this."

* * *

Jake Chambers had always been small for his age.

At eleven years, he barely came up to Roland's elbows.

The Tick Tock Man was nearly a giant, both taller and wider than Roland, with muscles like the body builders Jake had once seen in Atlantic City.

The aching pain in his cuffed hand intensified and he realized – again – that he was trying to pull his hand out of its prison. His breath was coming in harsh, short pants; he was an inch away from hyperventilating. An inch away from panicking.

As the Tick Tock Man unclasped his knife sheath and tossed it on the floor, far enough away where Jake -- cuffed to the bed post – couldn't reach it – he felt himself not just slipping into panic but rushing pell mell into it, like a kid on a slide. The only thing – the only thought – that stopped him from losing track of himself entirely – was the Gunslinger. Roland would come. He would. He hadn't betrayed Jake under the mountains and he would come. Jake just had to hold on until Roland came.

Forearms larger than Jake's thighs landed on either side of his neck. Knees practically the size of Jake's head settled astride the boy's hips. Gazing up into Tick Tock's mad (Oh, but we're all mad here," the Cheshire Cat had told Alice) green eyes, pinned by the Morlock's enormous body, Jake had never felt so small.

* * *

Oy raced down the deserted corridor, tracking Jake's scent.

This stretch of the Gray's underground fortress seemed almost miraculously deserted and Roland thought he could feel Ka at work. With luck, he could ambush the Tick Tock Man and the others who also held Jake without drawing too much attention. It would be folly to rescue the boy only for both of them to die in the escape. Gods!

Instinct – honed by centuries of existence – spoke to the gunslinger as Oy raced ahead of him and he commanded the bumbler to stop. There. Around the corner. There was nothing different about this length of hall than any of the other rooms of ruin he'd run by in the past five minutes – but instinct called him to a halt anyway.

He could see the fur bunching up on Oy's back, the sharp teeth revealed in the bumbler's snarl, and knew an enemy waited around the corner – around the next turn of the path.

A muffled grunt, a muted thud. Hoarse, rasping breath. They were close. Without looking, Roland extracted his knife from his belt, peering around the corner and retreating so quickly even an attentive guard would have seen nothing but a flicker of light.

This guard was anything but attentive, however.

Roland watched, rage rising in his chest – disgust didn't begin to explain what he felt.

Propped against the wall, eyes half closed in pleasure and distraction, stood Gasher. One ear pressed against the door, filthy left hand bracing himself, the other fumbling with his crotch, pistoning back and forth. As Roland watched, the wretched thing grunted and one of his sores burst, spraying blood and yellow pus against a raddled cheek.

From behind the door Gasher leaned on Roland heard desperate, pained cries.

Holding the knife between his fingers as Cort had taught him, Roland walked around the corner making no effort to conceal himself. Caution be damned, he _wanted_ the creature to see him, to realize he'd stepped into the clearing at the end of the path when he'd first wrapped an arm around Jake's neck.

"It's quicker than you deserve," Roland thought.

The gunslinger was only six feet away before Gasher noticed him, good eye widening in disbelief. His busy hand fell away and Roland saw blood on his fingertips.

"You!" he snarled.

"Me," Roland agreed, and buried the knife hilt-deep in the foul creature's chest. Tugged it out, turned, and pointed his preferred weapon at the door's lock. Every anguished cry from behind the door stung his heart like a whip.

"Water," he thought, pulling the trigger, bringing his foot back to kick the door open. "Water if God wills it."

The door crashed open, slamming into the wall behind it.

Oy was a streak of fur between his legs, racing forward.

Then the bloody fingers clenched around Roland's calf.

* * *

Jake cried out when the man bit his neck. There was a low, rattling sound as his shirt, which Mort had undoubtedly paid good money for, ripped in two, and the boy screamed again. Hands fumbled at the front of his jeans, momentarily stymied by the unfamiliar zipper – or perhaps the massive fingers simply found it hard to close upon such a small object as the zipper's tab.

There were going to be bruises on his arms, on his chest, his hips, but the boy could handle that. It was what he knew was coming that Jake didn't think he could face.

"Oh God, please," he beat at the man's shoulders with his free right arm, but Tick Tock took no notice, still fumbling with Jake's jeans. "God – or Roland. Please. Save me or kill me – but do it _now_."

As if in answer to his silent plea, the door crashed open.

* * *

It was a mistake that Cort would have bloodied both ears (and blackened both eyes) over. "Every shot a killing shot, maggots," his battle scarred teacher had growled at them. "Every one, or the not-quite dead will take you with them to the clearing at the end of the path."

The blade of the gunslinger's knife had stabbed through Gasher's rotten skin but missed his heart by a hair's breadth. The hole in his chest pulsed with red blood, but he still had enough strength in him to pull Roland off balance, enough strength to grin balefully at the gunslinger even as Roland put a bullet right through the muck encrusted yellow scarf on the creature's forehead, piercing the skull and shattering whatever brains remained beneath it.

Roland whirled, quick as a snake, to face Tick Tock. But Gasher's distraction had bought the leader of the Grays one precious split-second and even as Roland brought his other gun up to bear on the massive man he saw the Tick Tock man's finger tighten on the trigger and knew that the leader of the Grays had him dead in his sights.

Jake screamed out a warning as the gunslinger shot Gasher between the eyes and Tick Tock belted him with his free hand, hard enough to rock his head against the wall. Stars exploded in front of his eyes. The Gray did this without even looking; did it with his left hand even as he was swinging his right, with the Colt revolver in it to aim at the Gunslinger, and the boy could see the inevitable conclusion. Roland – for the perhaps the first time in his long life – was beat.

Roland Deschain might very well have been sent to the clearing at the end of the path by the bullet in the Tick Tock Man's gun, and many things that later happened may have never occurred, had not ka intervened in the form of a billy bumbler.

* * *

Oy had raced into the room the instant the gunslinger had kicked the door open, running as fast as he could for the figures on the bed, not even breaking stride when Roland whirled and put a bullet through Gasher's deserving brain. Oy cared nothing for Gasher, or Roland's guns, or the gun the large man was pointing at Olan. Oy cared only about Ake. Oy watched – and felt – the blow the Gray delivered to the boy's cheek as he raced across the room. Leapt onto the bed. And then Oy, snarling, foam dripping from his mouth, drove the teeth he had bitten Jake's hand with scarce hours before directly into the Tick Tock Man's groin.

* * *

A supernova of pain – gut twisting, rotten, savage, white hot agony – ripped through the Tick Tock Man's crotch, and the man screamed. He had never imagined there was this much pain in the world and now some scratching, snarling, digging _thing_ was savaging him. All conscious thought abandoned him; he turned to seize the creature digging between his legs, the Colt that could have been the gunslinger's doom dropping from his hand without a thought.

Head pounding from the man's blow, Jake groaned and blinked. Then the Tick Tock Man shrieked – a scream of pure, undiluted agony – and the sound of it helped clear Jake's head.

He saw Oy plant his back legs in the mattress, digging into the Tick Tock Man's balls, and couldn't stop the bolt of vindication that flashed through him. Whatever else happened, the leader of the Grays would never again be able to threaten another child with rape. Then his eyes caught the falling Colt a split second before it fell into his cuffed hand.

* * *

Roland could have almost emptied his revolver in the Tick Tock Man's head, (he had the time) but as he watched the gun fall into Jake's small, cuffed, bloody hand, he held back. Roland had seen enough when he kicked the door open – the boy's torn shirt, the Tick Tock Man's clothes scattered across the floor, the tearstains on the boy's cheeks, the mark on his neck – to know that, while Tick Tock hadn't had time to take all he'd wanted from Jake – that the boy hadn't been raped – he'd taken quite a lot. Innocence Jake could never get back after being forced into this man's bed.

This was Jake's kill. If the boy willed it so.

All of these thoughts flashed through Roland's mind as he watched the boy catch the gun, pull the chain of the cuffs to its fullest limit, and jam the barrel of the Colt against the Tick Tock Man's neck, just under his chin. Still trying to tear Oy away from his body, the man didn't even notice until Jake spoke.

"May your first day in hell last ten thousand years."

He pulled the trigger twice. Blood didn't just pour over his left hand, it _crashed_ over it, like a wave rolling in at the beach.

With a gunslinger's eyes, the boy watched the body collapse beside him, rattling the bed beneath it. So fell Lord Perth.

"And may it be the shortest."

Roland watched Jake make his first kill, surprised less at the skill he demonstrated than the words he spoke. Had he even told Jake the story of Gray Dick and Lazy Riza? The gunslinger wasn't positive, but he didn't think so. He thought it more likely that the boy had simply plucked the knowledge from his mind.

Slowly, the gunslinger lowered his weapon, holstering it with the reluctance he always felt at the knowledge that the battle was ended. Suddenly an alarm began to blare, deafeningly loud, around and under them.

The alarms seemed to flip a switch in Jake; in an instant the gunslinger was gone and only the traumatized boy remained. "Roland!" He struggled to free his left leg, pinned under the Tick Tock Man's body, and jerked frantically at his cuffed, bloody hand.

Oy padded over to Jake and Roland joined him, settling his hands on the boy's struggling shoulders. The bed reeked of blood, but it was not a smell with which Roland was unfamiliar.

"Jake, look at me."

The boy did, tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes and cutting clear tracks down his dirty, bruised, but still fair face. He held the boy's eyes for a long moment, _feeling_ Jake fight for control, seeing the effort it was costing him to regain the self possession he usually maintained with such ease, and was fiercely proud. Cuffed to the bloody bed, beaten and almost raped, and having just made his first kill, Roland could see the boy digging in his heels, forcing the panic back if not away.

He stroked his right hand across the boy's cheek, kissing him lightly on the forehead where his usually bright golden hair had been darkened to a macabre brown by sweat, blood, and dirt.

"I am so proud of you."

The boy bit back a sob, Roland's whisper echoing in his ears despite the loud blare of the alarm.

The gunslinger inspected his left hand, confined in the handcuffs.

"I can get you out of this. These cuffs aren't designed for a child's hands, and we should have enough space to squeeze your hand out." The blood currently covering the boy's palm and wrist would make a good lubricant, but he didn't say that. "It will hurt, but we have to do it. Are you ready?"

"Yes." The boy held the gunslinger's eyes with his own blue ones. "Get it off me."

* * *

Authors Notes:

When Jake dies in New York, he's wearing his school uniform, watch and expensive shoes. When Jake appears at the Way Station in The Gunslinger, he's wearing a brown shirt, blue jeans, and boots. When Jake is drawn in _The Wastelands_, he's wearing a t-shirt and jeans (though he loses his pants to the doorkeeper) and his watch. It's his watch that gets Jake into a lot of trouble in the Cradle of the Grays, given Tick Tock's interest in timepieces and computers. If Jake doesn't die under the mountains and isn't re-drawn, he never gets his watch and Tick Tock never gets distracted by it. I wanted to examine how a little thing like that could change the course of Jake's captivity.

_The Wastelands_, while my favorite Dark Tower book, posed a bit of a problem for me, given the nature of this story. The entire first half of _The Wastelands_ is about Roland and Jake's struggles with madness over the paradox and their efforts to get back to one another. It is among King's best writing: suspenseful, thoughtful, dramatic, terrifying and emotional. Of course, in a universe where Roland doesn't let Jake die under the mountains, almost the entire first half of _The Wastelands_ (excepting interaction with Shardik and a few conversations) is obsolete. Trying to substitute half a book with my modest little story was beyond me. Instead I focused on the other half of the book, the ka-tet's time in Lud. I remembered the discrepancy between Jake's watch/no watch and the hints of what the Gray's wanted Jake for, and this chapter emerged. I also really, really wanted to hear Jake condemn Tick Tock to thousands of years in hell. And because the ka-tet does not need to go into the Speaking Ring to draw Jake, there will be no Mordred in this story.

Feedback on this chapter would be greatly appreciated.

Next: Wolves. And ... _Flagg._


	5. The Dark Man

Author: Delah

Authors Notes: Thank you all for your reviews. This chapter is where things really start to change from the series as we know it. Because there was no need to draw Jake from the speaking ring, there is no Mia/no Mordred, which means the ka-tet's enemies have to come up with a new plan to breach or destroy the Tower.

"Don't you come down here! If we can't get away we'll try to hide when they come by _but don't you come down here and spoil things!"_

He sent the message to all of them as hard as he could, listening to Benny's gibbering in the background.

"We're not leaving them." He knelt down in the dirt beside Francine Tavery and was reaching out to pull her off of her brother when the cold metal barrel of the pistol pressed against the back of his neck. With his peripheral vision he could see the gun's twin, pointing at a stunned (but now silent) Benny.

And even before the voice spoke from behind and above him, he understood. The lineless hand holding the gun pointed at Benny was one hint; the shudder creeping up his back was another. He felt a stab of cold fury – at Frank for running, Francine for fainting, Benny for gibbering – but most of all at himself. What good was the fucking Touch if it wouldn't _warn _him of stuff like this? All that worrying about Andy and Benny's Da' and the Wolves had just distracted him and the rest of the Tet from the real threats, and he'd just been Castled.

He'd been blindsided before his first real battle. Before the first shot even. '_That'll go down in the history books, 'Bama,_' the boy thought wryly to himself. '_Shortest gunslinger apprenticeship ever_.' The fact that he hadn't seen it coming, that _Roland _hadn't seen it coming, didn't matter. What mattered were the guns pointed at him and his friend while his own weapon was still holstered. Gods!

The dark voice behind him seemed to read his thoughts and giggled. Benny, crouched on the other side of the Tavery twins, shuddered and made as if to crawl away, his face white as parchment. But the older boy stayed, twitching and clearly terrified, watching Jake with anguished eyes.

"Jake, Jake. Roland would be _so_ disappointed with you! Ambushed already! I say true, I say thankya."

The Colt Jake had taken from the Tick Tock man's room in Lud (the same one he had used to stop Tick Tock's breath with) hung in its Docker's clutch next to Jake' s ribs. But the boy knew no matter how fast he was, he'd never be able to get the gun out before Flagg – or Walter – or whatever he called himself – put a bullet in his head, or Benny's. The creature laughed again, and the still unconscious Frank Tavery moaned.

"Nuh-uh, 'Bama." Try and draw against me and I'll blow your traitor-son friend out of his shor' boots." One pistol waggled at Benny, but the one pressed against his own neck didn't budge an inch. "You don't draw on _me_, I draw _you_! 'Member? New York? When we first met?" That laugh again. Jake shuddered, remembering the sound of it against the mountain walls, the crash of the waterfall echoing against the sounds of Roland's guns.

He felt Eddie again, and Roland, both calling him, but he didn't need Walter's warning to know that ignoring them was his only option. Walter didn't want to face Roland, not yet. Not before the Watch Me table was set up exactly to his liking.

"Jake – who is this guy?" Benny was so scared he was almost crying, but he hadn't panicked and run, and Jake felt a rush of affection for the other boy. Then Walter laughed again and heaved an offended gasp.

"You mean you haven't told him about me? And after all we've been through together! Why my friends know _all_ about you!" Jake could feel the insane smile on the creature's face. "They're all just _dying_ to meet you, 'Bama. Especially Sai Sayre. He's always had a hard on for pretty little boys, and you being Roland's chosen son just sweetens the deal. Be glad I'm not taking you to Ol' Rat Face, or you'd lose whatever virginity Tick Tock left you."

He dug the barrel of the pistol deeper into Jake' s neck, right where his hair stopped. "Stand up, 'Bama. Leaning over like this is going to give your old buddy Walter a bad back, and there's a shocking shortage of chiropractors around here! Say true! And keep your hands up when you do it. You know the drill, you've seen enough _Miami Vice_ – or that was after your when, wasn't it? Good thing, really. The fact that that show started a fashion trend is just more evidence that the Tower is crumbling. Up! Upsy Daisy, don't be lazy!"

Jake stood slowly, balancing on legs that tingled with pins and needles. It felt like he'd been stuck in that position for ages, but it couldn't have been more than two minutes since Walter had appeared out of nowhere. And thrown all their plans out of whack.

A dull flush of anger rose in Jake's cheeks. All that planning, all that palavering, and for what? For this wizard to appear out of fucking _nowhere_. Walter wasn't going to kill him, Jake knew that – ka, probably – but the ka-tet was going to be separated, nonetheless. How were they going to fight the Wolves with one less gun?

"Hurry it up, Jakey. Time to go – we're late, we're late, for a very important date. Those Beams aren't going to last forever, you now. Hurry it, or I'll blast a hole through your little buddy's face."

"Benny." The boy looked at Jake, then Walter, back to him. "Come here." Jake held his arms up like the bad guy in a cops and robbers movie, standing still as Benny approached him.

Behind him, he could feel Walter watching curiously. Jake had an idea that Walter O' Dim, or Flagg, or whatever you wanted to call him, was seldom surprised by anything.

"Take my gun out of the docker's clutch." Benny shook his head, obviously terrified at touching the unfamiliar weapon. Jake's voice firmed. "Take it. Give it Roland." It pained him to surrender the weapon, but Walter would just toss it anyway. "And tell him -" he swallowed. Walter watched, interested. That interest was the only reason he was allowing this, Jake knew.

"Tell him … even things such as these serve the Beams. And so long as I draw breath, I won't let them fall."

"Right pretty speech, Jakey." He felt Benny pull the gun from his Docker's clutch and then Walter was tugging him back further up the path, away from Benny and the Tavery twins, away from his ka-tet, whose worry he could now feel like a howl inside his mind. The Wolves were almost here, a minute away now, and of course this had all been _timed_; and wasn't it just hunky dory that in a world where time was slipping off the tracks it was ticking with Swiss precision on this particular morning?

Gun still trained on Jake, Walter holstered his other weapon and seized Jake's arm with his free hand. "While we're passing messages, Benny boy, give one to Roland for me, would you?"

Jake saw Benny recoil and guessed that Walter had just winked at him.

"Tell him I'll grind his face into the dirt of Thunderclap while the blood of Eld pours out of his ugly throat." Jake felt the man's mocking shrug. "Not as poetic as Jake's, but oh well. Roland never was particularly sentimental anyway. Oh! And tell him he really must watch _The Magnificent Seven,_ for the last line if nothing else. 'Gunslinger's lose. They always lose.' So said Sai McQueen to Sai Brynner!"

Then the butt of Walter's gun crashed against Jake's head and he knew no more.

"He called himself 'Walter.'"

Eddie cursed and Susannah let out a soft cry, but Roland didn't even flinch. He'd known, when Jake hadn't made it back to the ambush spot, that something had gone wrong. But by then – by the time he'd realized _how_ wrong – there'd been no _time_, damnit. The Wolves had been upon them, and in the field behind them Sai Eisenhart and Rosalita both lay dead; one decapitated by the Wolves light stick, one struck by a sneetch. Another fighter – another gun – might have saved one or both of them, but Jake had been taken from them.

More deaths to add to Walter's tally. Immediately after the last Wolf fell he and Eddie with Susannah on Eddie's hip had left the battlefield, sprinting up the arryo path, Roland bellowing Jake's name. They'd found Benny Slightman and the now conscious Tavery twins slowly descending, the injured boy propped up between Benny and Francine. But no Jake. Just a clearly petrified Benny, repeating words that chilled Roland's blood.

Quicker than thought, Roland reached for his belt. Benny, tear tracks glistening on his cheeks as he faced the gunslinger's rage, flinched, but Roland only held up a single shell and, to Benny's amazement, began to dance it along his knuckles.

The boy stood, transfixed, and Roland felt a memory – sharp as a winter wind – of hypnotizing Jake at the Way Station. Walter had been behind that, too.

Biting back grief, the gunslinger concentrated on the boy in front of him.

"Tell me Benny, son of Benjamen. Tell us exactly what happened once the one called Walter appeared on the arryo path. Leave out not a word. Do ye' ken? Not one single word."

And Benny did. Eyes closed, breathing as if fast asleep, the boy recounted everything: Frank's fall, Francine's fainting, Jake's refusal to leave them – and Walter appearing out of seemingly nowhere, armed. Threatening Benny and Jake. Sayre. Jake's message for Roland. '_Even things such as these serve the Beam._' Walter's message. Walter striking Jake over the head with his gun, knocking the other boy unconscious, dragging him roughly in to the trees, riding off a minute later on one of the gray horses such as the Wolves rode, Jake in the saddle in front of him. Riding not towards Thunderclap but in the other direction – towards the cave. Towards the unfound doorway, and Black Thirteen. Towards everywhere and everywhen that the magic door and malevolent ball could take him and his hostage.

Roland heard the sound of hesitant footsteps on the path and knew Pere Callahan had joined them. Below them, on the plain, the gunslinger could hear the sounds of celebration beginning, the townsfolk singing and dancing with joy. And why not? The monsters were slain; _their_ children were safe. His child, though, was now being held by a being far more terrible than the Wolves. For the Wolves were merely machines, while Walter …

"_He darkles. He tincts."_

Was an emissary of Hell. The children of the Calla were safe, but if it would have saved Jake's life, Roland would gladly have traded the lives of all the twins (including the ones standing right in front of him) for Jake's. He thought of Ben Slightman, the father of the boy in front of him, and understood him. Ay, he understood him very well.

"We can still catch him, can't we?" Eddie's strained voice sounded desperate and near tears. "If we take some of the horses from the buggy and ride fast, Roland – the battle wasn't _that_ long. Because, Roland …"

The gunslinger watched the younger man's face impassively, listening to Eddie speak what they all already knew. "If he took Jake and the ball through the door – he could take the kid _anywhere._ Anywhere, anywhen."

Aye, anywhere. To New York, or Lud, or the Way Station again. To La Can Roisse or Fedic or even the Court of the Crimson King.

But even the idea of Walter – his ancient enemy, who hated him and gloried in his pain – and oh! How it must please him even now, to imagine Roland's thoughts – delivering Jake to the Crimson King, that destroyer of worlds, wasn't the worst of it. For Roland had confidence in Jake; the boy was a gunslinger, after all. He could hold out until the rest of his ka-tet arrived. But if Walter took the ball as well – if there was no way to follow Walter and the boy –

Roland crushed the thought as swiftly as he could. There was a way. There was always a way. And though Roland knew in his heart that they couldn't catch up to Walter – not with his headstart – they would try. Had to try.

It was Eddie, of course, who wanted to know why. Why Jake, and not himself or Susannah? Gasher and the Grays had kidnapped Jake because he was a boy, and young, handsome boys were valuable and rare commodities in Lud. But it was obvious from Benny's story that Walter's ambush and capture of Jake had been planned, perhaps as far back as their first day in the Calla. So why Jake?

The obvious answer (because Roland loved Jake, and Walter hated Roland) went unspoken. It was too obvious, too self-evident. The gunslinger had no doubt Walter was glorying in the torture Roland felt, but he no more believed that Walter had taken the boy purely out of spite than he believed Oy would dance the commala.

"Even things such as these serve the Beams." Jake's message to him, given by Benny. Even Walter served the Beams, and the Tower, though he sought to destroy them.

Roland carried Jake's words with him, all through the trek to the Doorway Cave, the discovery of the missing ball, and the meeting with the Manni. He listened, in the back of his mind, for Jake's voice, hoping that the boy's touch, or their shared khef, would be enough to allow the child to send a message. But that corner of his mind remained stubbornly silent.

Eddie and Susannah huddled together, in an agony to be off. Roland heard the Manni's promise with great dismay but no real surprise; their trek back to the doorway cave would have to wait till dawn. And now, on top of everything else, this business with the writer, Sai King, had rattled the Pere.

Bitter at the delay the remaining members of the ka-tet, including Pere Callahan, returned to the rectory, the sounds of revelry echoing hollowly in their ears. The townspeople had largely avoided them since the battle, which was no more than Roland had expected.

Benjamen Slightman the elder had approached Roland after they had come down the arryo path, and while Eddie and Susannah had been unable to hear the words exchanged between them, they had seen Slightman – who owed his life to Jake's mercy – crush the glass lenses of his spectacles beneath his shor' boot, then turn and embrace his bewildered son.

They sat in silence on the porch of the Pere's rectory as the sounds of jubilation dimmed and the Calla slept the sleep of the victorious. But the members of the ka-tet of 19 did not sleep. Roland and the Pere each sat in one of the Pere's rocking chairs while Eddie and Susannah curled up together near the stairs.

Oy had permitted Roland to pick him up and the Billy Bumbler lay still on the gunslinger's lap, silent but not sleeping. Jake had left Oy at the Pere's house before they left that morning for the battle. When they had returned to the house after their trip to the doorway cave, there had been deep gouges carved into the Pere's bedroom door and walls, perfectly matched to Oy's claws, and the room had been ransacked. It was obvious that the Billy Bumbler had sensed Jake's peril and gone half mad in his desire to get out and protect the boy.

All through the day, questions chased themselves through Roland's tired mind. Why Jake, and where had Walter taken the boy? These questions he could not entirely banish, because if they were ever to see Jake again, they needed the answers.

It was the Beam that gave them.

The quake startled them all, lighting up the sky with green fire and waking Susannah, who had been dozing. And as they huddled together, waiting for the interminable night to end, Roland thought he could feel the fallen Beam burn, feel the remaining Beams weakening, straining – and knew exactly where Jake was, where Walter had taken him, and why.

Roland would have followed Eddie or Susannah, had they been taken, but Walter didn't want them because their talents – in addition to their gunslinger abilities – lay in other areas. Walter had taken Jake because of the boy's skill with the Touch, because of his ability as a Breaker. One more Breaker – particularly a gunslinger, one of those sworn to protect the Beams, being forced to destroy them instead – might be enough to destroy the Beams and the Tower before Roland and his ka-tet could save them.

Walter had taken Jake to Algul Siento with the rest of the Breakers. Blue Heaven. To Thunderclap, where the clocks ran backwards and the graves spat out their dead.

And – of this Roland had no doubt – Walter wanted him to know where he was taking Jake, wanted them to follow. Had he not spoken of the Beams to Benny, knowing that Roland would demand a full account from the lad after Jake's disappearance? Had he not left the sigul of Thunderclap behind after their brief confrontation in the Green Palace?

Jake himself had known – intuited it somehow, perhaps through the very Touch that had made him a target – which was why he'd spoken to Roland of the Beams. If the magic stayed long enough, they could follow. This other business with Calvin Tower and Stephen King would still have to be settled, but Algul Siento, Walter, the Breakers and Jake, most of all Jake, came first.

But ka served itself, as Roland had learned as a small child. It cared not for the wants and pleas of a man or woman – even those of a gunslinger.

Ka like a wind, as Susan Delgado would have said.

Ka like a wind.

The door opened on a hazy, dirty sky, the fetid stench of Thunderclap and, somewhere very faintly, the sound of music.

Roland and Eddie strained for the door, but it rejected them even as it sucked one very surprised (and very agitated) bumbler inside, slamming the door shut behind him before Eddie or even Roland, with his eerie speed, could get close.

Roland didn't even have time to curse – it was Oy that ka sent to help Jake, Oy! – before the door opened again, this time on the New York of '99 – the honking of horns, the smell of exhaust, the tireless beat of a street preacher, all music to Eddie's homesick ears – only this time it was the Pere who went through the door, looping the loop, flying like a bullet shot from a gun, and then the door was shut and in a breath it was opening a third time and now it was Roland, Eddie and Susannah all flying through the unfound door into Maine, out of Roland's world and into key-stone earth, blowing on ka's breath.

A hand – cold as a corpse, but burning with fever underneath – caressed the side of Jake's face, tugging him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

"Wakey wakey Jakey! Simon says wake up, and never mind your noggin. We've got some palavaring to do, parnder. Say true, thankya." Another of those unspeakable hands ran over his hair, cupping the back of his neck. Its touch was feverish, pestilential, diseased.

Jake shuddered at it, skull pounding where Flagg had struck him with the gun butt. There was no moment of wishfulness or disorientation; he knew exactly where he was and what had happened to him. For a moment he nevertheless felt a childish desire to block it all out anyway – to feign unconsciousness, keep his eyes closed and ignore the gibbering, lethal, ageless demon that had snatched him away from his true family. And why not? It was a childish desire, to close his eyes and wish everything away, but what of that? He _was _a child, wasn't he? Gods, he wasn't even thirteen yet!

Child or not, he opened his eyes and surveyed the ruined, blasted landscape that surrounded him and his captor, swaying on the back of the mechanical (and uncomfortable, say true) horse. A child, yes, not thirteen yet, no, but more than that, Jake was a gunslinger. Chosen by ka as Roland of Gilead's adopted son, and he'd be damned if he'd just give up.

Walter slowed the "horse" to a halt, and Jake swallowed, feeling the acid dust of this blasted land worm its way into his throat. Gods, he was thirsty!

"They'll be plenty of libations at Blue Heaven, 'Bama – even Nozz-A-La, the drink of finer bumhugs everywhere. We'll join them soon – need to pass on news of the Wolves demise – no brain food for the Breakers this time – but we'll have ourselves a little palavar first. Get things squared away, as Eddie might say."

As he spoke, Walter wrapped both arms around Jake's chest, pulling the boy tightly against his body, and the boy locked a scream in his throat. Sudden tears stung his eyes and he controlled them only with great effort. He could feel the creature's smile against his neck and the thought, horrible as it was, helped him fight back the panic and revulsion at the ancient touch. "He's doing it to repulse me. Because he _knows _that it repulses me. Because he enjoys my pain. No, even more than that. He cherishes pain – mine, anyone's. Bathes in it, glories in it, soaks himself in it. It's the only thing that interests him anymore."

That lineless hand toying with his hair was like that of a spider crawling up his neck. What words would Roland speak?

"Say what you have to say, and be done with it."

A soft chuckle against his neck that made his skin crawl. "No ideas why I brought you here, little boy? Well, our time is short. I'd take my time, had I an abundance of it, but ka waits for no man, or wizard, for that matter!" He stroked the boy's hair. "You're to become a Breaker. I'll take you to them and tell them of the demise of their Wolves –but it wasn't wholly pointless, for I found a Breaker in the Calla! Say true! One more Breaker to destroy the Beams and ensure the rise of the King – Oh, Discordia!"

A giggle, like glass grating against glass. "But the administration here – no one here – is to know who you are. You can call yourself Tom, Dick or Harry for all I care, but you're not to tell them your name. Jake, son of Elmer, son of Roland. No matter how strong a Breaker you be, if they knew you to be a gunslinger of Roland's tet they'd place a gun to your temple and drop you dead like a broke leg horse."

"I should think you'd want me dead. After all, you've killed me before. Tried to get Roland to kill me, too. Under the mountains."

Riding as he was in front of Walter on the mechanical horse, Jake was grateful he didn't have to look at the man behind him. Controlling his fear was difficult enough, looking at the wasted land before his eyes, his body recoiling at Flagg's touch. To do so while looking into that insane gaze – might prove impossible.

"You take everything so _personally_, 'Bama! So I tried to get other people to kill you a couple of times! Actually succeeded once! You're here _now_, aren't you? Anyway, it wasn't about _you_. Not really. You were fated to be in Roland's ka-tet. I knew it long before 'Ol long, tall and ugly did. You're lucky he realized it in the end." The frown in the voice became more apparent, and Jake could swear the voice behind him sounded almost … thoughtful.

"I didn't think he'd save you, but he did. Ruined my plans, or so I thought. No prophecy fulfilled, no red heel, not this time! No bah-bo for Roland!" He pinched Jake's chin between his fingers, shaking the boy's head for him. "No sneaky peeky bah-bo and so I had to figure out another way to the Tower – all because Roland saved you." Jake could hear genuine curiosity in that voice. "Roland's never chosen anyone over the Tower before. _Never._ You know some of the things he's done – Susan Delgado, Gabrielle, David, Cuthbert – but you don't know them all. I do. Every name, every betrayal, every death. In the end, he left them all – friends and family, lovers and enemies – left them all behind for the Tower. All except you."

Smooth fingers released the boy's chin. "Since you cost me the sigul I needed to gain the Tower, I figured it was only fair that you would help me get it back. Don't you agree?" He forced Jake's head to nod once, emphatically, like a puppet. "But, we're off topic again! Shame on us! Shame shame shame! We're late and you need to meet our zany cast of Breakers in End-World: Ted, Pimli – you already know Finli, don't you? Bad, Jakey, spying on Ben and Andy! And you didn't even kill Ben at the end of it! Roland at least had Hax's neck popped, but you just let 'im go! That's not something a true gunslinger does, you know."

"Tell them who you really are and I'll hunt down your furry little friend and make him into a bumbler skin cap. Contradict me and you'll pay." The playfulness had been tamped down now. It wasn't gone – it was never really gone – but Walter wanted Jake to understand the seriousness of his words. "You're just a sodbusters brat from the Calla. Tell them otherwise and you'll die and I'll be very displeased."

When there was no response, he roughly shook the boy sitting in front of him. "Don't play dull and hard to get, brat! Do you ken?"

Jake was remembering his time with Gasher – when he'd refused to sing, Gasher had clobbered him. Silence wouldn't work with Walter, and while the boy was positive Walter didn't want to kill him, he believed Walter would have no problem whatsoever torturing him. But talking didn't really mean he had to submit to Walter's wishes.

"I ken. I'll be Calla born to those who run the Devar-Toite. But you must know your time is short, ancient as you are. Roland will follow us. He'll end you. You bringing me here will save the Beams, not destroy them." He swallowed, dust lining his throat. It tatsted like the desert. Only fouler.

"I'll not Break. I'm sworn to defend the Beams, not hurt them, and I'll not Break. Not even to save my life."

Walter only chuckled, but as he gigged the horse up to a trot and the walls and fences of Blue Heaven first appeared before Jake's amazed, tired eyes, the boy couldn't shake the feeling that the Man in Black was very pleased.

Notes: In DT7, Susannah speculates that Richard Sayre was attracted to young boys – especially Mordred.


	6. Blue Heaven

Author: Delah

Disclaimer: Not Mine

Author Notes: Setting the scene for the next chapter and the Battle of Algul Siento.

It was shortly after leaving their Dan-Tete (that ka had placed John Cullum in their road, Roland had no doubt) that Roland received Jake's message. Or transmission, as Eddie said.

Eddie also picked up some of it – perhaps because he and Jake were from the same world. But it was Roland who felt it most strongly, and after his initial joy at the communication from the lost member of his ka-tet, he could only wonder at the power it must have taken for the boy to send the message between worlds. They'd been walking towards John Cullum's galaxy, Eddie with Susannah planted on his hip, all of them absorbing the feeling of this, the keystone world, and Roland's fingers had just closed around the handle of the door when he heard Jake in his head. Perhaps Jake's words had been carried by the Beam above them.

" – Algul … Breakers … Walter … Hurry … time .. short. Beam—"

And then the voice cut off.

"_Jake!_" He shouted in his mind, hands clenching around the metal handle. "_Answer me!"_

But there was nothing. The distance was too great – and something was interfering. Walter, probably. Roland ground his teeth, feeling the dry twist ache and throb in his hip.

Eddie turned to him with shining eyes. "He's alive," he breathed, relief evident in his voice. "Alive, and okay. In a shitload of trouble with all those breakers, but he's ok!" Eddie whooped, kissing Susannah on the cheek. "C'mon, let's go. Let's get Tower straightened out and then haul ass back to Turtleback so we can get to Jake!"

But Ka had other plans, and by the time they had secured the lot from Calvin Tower and Aaron Deepneau, their path no longer led directly back to Blue Heaven. For Roland, Susannah and Eddie, their road led to Bridgeton, and Sai King. Then it was their last (and it was their last, say sorry) palaver with John Cullum, their Dan-Tete. No matter how much they wanted to leave Keystone and find Algul Siento, Ka's path led them elsewhere.

And by the time Roland and the rest of the scattered ka-tet could return to the gunslinger's world much had changed, and ka had worked its will in Algul Siento, what some call Blue Heaven.

The top guy at Algul Siento – what Jake's father would have called "the big cheese" – Pimli Prentiss, had accepted Jake as a gift almost unquestioningly. In truth, they really didn't _need_ another breaker; another day or two and the Beam would be beyond saving, perhaps even for ka.

But Sai Walter reported only to the King himself, the man was mad, and if he'd found a pretty in the Calla to give to Pimli Prentiss in these last days, Pimli wasn't one to say yay or nay. The boy had breaker abilities, no doubt – aye, strong ones, even Ted had seemed almost breathless when he'd met the lad – but it likely wouldn't matter.

Pimli had handed the boy – Benny Slightman, son of the mole in Calla Bryn Sturges, and Pimli could appreciate the irony there – off to Ted for the older breaker to look after. Under other circumstances, (such as it not being the end of all existence) the big cheese of Algul Siento might have taken more of an interest in their new young breaker – pausing, perhaps, to consider the boy's rather calm self possession after having been kidnapped away from his father and home by the reprehensible Walter. Or simply wondered at the boy's cool blue assessing eyes – eyes that whispered danger. Perhaps even gunslinger.

But there was Sai Walter. Walter was the King's second in command and, if he so chose, he could have Paul Prentiss that was ground into sausage and fed to the birds in La Can Rouse If Prentiss so much as raised a question over the new blonde haired breaker.

And why would he question it? The boy was a breaker, say true. Walter served the King and had brought one last feather to tip the scales here, at the end of all things. But it likely wouldn't matter. Their work was almost done. A few more artificial sunrises and sunsets at most. Aye, almost done.

One more boy would make no difference.

"I won't break."

The boy Jake looked at Ted with young, tired eyes, but there was no doubting the steel of his voice. "Never in life."

His blue eyes took in the two men flanking Ted Brautigan: Sheemy Ruiz and Dinky Earnshaw. Three grown men facing one twelve year old boy, and it should have been ridiculous for the boy (now freshly showered and scrubbed, hair a good deal shorter thanks to Algul Siento's barber, say thankya) to maintain such a calm front in front of them. To issue orders, in truth. And demands. Should have been. But it wasn't.

Because even dressed in new clothes so stiff and clean they chafed, his hair still wet and smelling of Prell, and his face freshly pink and scrubbed and looking two less than his twelve years, Jake Chambers was a gunslinger.

"If you don't, Benny, they'll kill you." Ted spoke calmly, trying to get a sense of this strange new boy- brought by Walter, of all people!—who regarded them and this whole situation so calmly. Ted's dreams whispered the truth to him, but he dismissed them. It couldn't be.

Jake merely smiled.

"Wouldn't be the first time."

He could feel Ted's wondering and knew if they could simply palaver somewhere away from listening ears he could make them understand. And they had to understand soon. Because here, in the Devar Toi, Jake could feel the Beams as he never could before. Every wound laced across its shining surface, every scar dark magic had etched into the surface of the prim. Time was short, deathly so.

Yet as he had showered, Jake had realized a wonderful thing; he was no longer afraid. He had been, to some extent, ever since Walter's pistol had pressed against his neck on the Arryo path in the Calla – or perhaps even before that, back in the Dogan, listening to Benny's Da betray his ka-tet.

But no longer. It might have simply been because Walter had disappeared after handing Jake over to Pimli; in truth, Sai Walter was a scary fellow. But Jake didn't think that was it. Not really. Despite the fading song of the wounded Beam above him, despite his imprisonment and separation from his father, brother and sister, he wasn't scared. Jake wasn't clear on Walter's motivations for bringing him here, but at this point he suspected they didn't really matter. Walter may have _thought _that _he_ had brought him here, but Jake knew better. It was ka, not Walter, that had led Jake here. This was where ka wanted him to be. And Jake thought he knew why.

'_If_ _Ka will say so,'_ he thought, and smiled.

Testing, Jake sent out a thought to Ted – directly to Ted, a telegram only the other man could open. It was astonishingly easy. Whether it was because of Ted's own psychic abilities or just the air of the place, crackling and humming with psychic energy, Jake didn't know.

'_Is there somewhere to speak that's safe?'_

He saw Ted glance at Sheemie out of the corner of his eye, then nod.

It was extraordinary, this communication with Ted; stronger than Jake had with any members of his own tet—save perhaps Oy.

Ted Brautigan held out his palm. "Take my hand."

And Jake did.

The cave Ted Brautigan, Sheemie Ruiz and Dinky Earnshaw had led them to was well outfitted with food and weapons and blankets, and Roland longed to lie down and sleep, but there were questions that had to be answered first.

The door the Prim had created in Turtleback Lane had led them here; to the blasted lands outside Algul Siento, within view of the peaceful village and artificial sun. Trapped and caught, Roland, Susannah and Eddie might very well have been had not the three strangers appeared and whisked them away to a safer place.

The older one – Ted – had assured them that Jake was all right, and Roland had absorbed this knowledge with as much joy as his exhausted, pained body could feel. Jake had known they were coming, had a pretty decent idea of where and when, and had sent the three Breakers after his tet.

"He feels like he's being watched. Well, we all are, but Jake seems to think the one called Walter – the one who brought him here - is watching him very close, and that he might raise Pimli's suspicions." Ted ran a hand through his graying hair. "Plus, your boy's the new kid in town – and everybody's talkin' 'bout the new kid in town."Eddie grinned; Susannah just looked blank. "Right now he's being tested for his dark levels – telepathy, precog, postcog and, of course, teleporatation."

Even in the dim light of the cave, the gunslinger could see the exhaustion in Ted's eyes, echoing the weariness in his own. "If Pimli even suspected 'Benny' was Jake, he'd be killed without a second thought. Once it might not have been true – every breaker is dear, something I've been very grateful for at times, but the end is closing now. One new breaker wouldn't make a difference."

Roland only nodded, feeling his wearied mind puzzle over the idea; if Walter knew that one more breaker wouldn't make a difference, why take Jake in the first place? Why draw Roland and his ka-tet here, now, for surely Walter had known Roland would follow Walter's trail?

He tried to make sense of it, but he could feel exhaustion sapping his strength. He could see it in Eddie's eyes; Susannah's too. There had been no chance to rest, no chance even to think, ever since before their battle with the Wolves. Maine had been one thing after another; Cullum, Tower, Sai King, and then Cullum again and Turtleback Lane. Now he was finally here, at the Devar Toi, hip aching, preparing for another battle. For there would be another battle. The knowledge both rejuvenated and depressed him at the same time.

"You have my story." Ted indicated the tape player. "Although – cry your pardon – it looks as though you're as likely to fall asleep as listen to it. We" – he nodded at Dinky and Sheemie – "have to leave soon, before they notice our absence. We'll palaver more tomorrow, after you've had time to rest and plan.

He looked sympathetically at them. "I know how difficult this must be." Oy barked at him, as if to say 'I doubt it.' Ted smiled. There was no joy in it. "I know how badly you'd like your ka-tet to be whole again, but know that your boy is safe." Talking directly to Roland now. "Gunslinger or not, we'll watch out for him.

The gunslinger nodded. The urge to rally Eddie, Susannah and Oy and march on Algul Siento, ending its threat to the Beams and freeing its Breakers, was strong, but it was also foolishly premature. They needed rest, and food, and strategy, or they'd lose more than they'd gain.

And there was Walter. Somewhere around, so Jake believed and so Roland believed, too. Watching, waiting, laying traps and devising plans the gunslinger could not quite ken.

I admit,there's not much action here. It's a scene-setting chapter. But the next chapter (which I promise will come out sooner than you think) will be longer and have a lot more action. Flagg. Roland. The Attack on Algul Siento. High Noon.


	7. High Noon

Author: Delah

Disclaimer: See previous chapters

Warnings: Character Death

* * *

_Ka was a wheel_. So said Roland of Gilead, his true father and aye, Jake knew that.

Knew it very well, for had he not been here before? Between the monster called Walter and the Gunslinger named Roland, with his own life (literally) hanging in the balance? Had he not experienced this already under the mountains, feeling worlds tremble amongst the three of them?

The Beam was saved, Jake could feel that, but even the Beams served the Tower. And it was the Tower, Jake knew as Walter dragged him down Pleasantville, the main street of Algul Siento, what some call Blue Heaven, that was now up for grabs.

"Come out, Roland! Come out and play! Come Come Commala! This is what everyone pays to see – the showdown in the street: Eastwood, Randolph Scott and Gary Cooper! We've got the good-" he gave Jake a rough shake with the hand not holding a pistol; "the bad," he bowed to the seemingly empty street "and the ugly!" A full throated laugh that echoed against the bucolic storefronts. You almost expected Wally and the Beaver to walk out of the ice cream parlor, Jake thought. "The Ugly – that's you, Roland!"

He lowered his voice, half dragging, half shoving Jake roughly along, one gun jammed against Jake's ribs, the other held above Walter's head. "No trying to get away, brat. Simon says stay still. Ye've done me a great favor, rallying the Breakers and saving the Beams – for how was I to claim the Tower if it fell? The Crimson King might not care, but I do! The King's gone bat shit insane anyway. And that is the truth, you might say." Walter laughed, a long, hyena wail at the sky that made Jake shudder. Then he yelled again.

"Come out, Roland! Come out and play! We'll have the palaver you cheated me out of under the mountains when you chose your little te-ka's life (another shake) over the pleasure of my company!"

Jake saw Pimli – Paul Prentiss that was, former big cheese of Algul Siento – lying sprawled on the dusty street, blood crusting his eyes, clearly dying but not yet dead. Walter saw him too, and, chuckling, placed a bullet in the man's eye, stepping on the dead man's throat as he dragged Jake down the street.

"Never liked that fool anyway. No imagination. Imagine, ending the world because it was your _job_! At least do it for the fun of it, and not the health benefits! When I think that the Tower almost fell because of a bunch of bureaucrats –"

Behind them, Jake could feel the other Breakers, both those that had fought for their freedom and those who had not, watching the scene avidly. With a sense of familiarity too, no doubt. For had they not seen it before? Had they not _all_ seen it before? The Showdown in the deserted street that was the pivotal scene of a thousand westerns?

The false sun was no true indicator, but Jake guessed it was more around nine a.m. than High Noon. This street, with its sewing shops and movie theater marquee, looked more like Mayberry than Tombstone or Dodge City, but it was a showdown nonetheless. _The _showdown, the scene every one came to the movie to see.

Walter finally stopped at (of course) the far end of the dusty street, beyond which Jake could see the guard towers and the endless devastation of Thunderclap. The man reeled them around, their backs to Thunderclap, their faces to the deserted street, empty but for the few bodies of the Devar Toi's guards that Jake's friends had dispatched. There they stood, facing the freshening wind, waiting for the gunslinger.

Beyond the street, Jake could see Ted, getting slowly to his feet. See and sense the other Breakers surrounding, watching them. Some breakers were wailing over the strewn bodies in the street, alarms sounding, but all these sounds were far away, unimportant. And he could sense his ka-tet – Eddie's exhilaration, Susannah's relief, Oy's unbridled joy and Roland's relentless determination as they approached Jake and Walter from the far end of the compound, responding to Walter's cries. They were coming, armed with lead.

"Oh, they're coming, 'Bama." The gun dug deeper into his ribs; his eyes stung with the sand and grit the wind tossed into their faces. "Death comes to all. Even gunslingers. But you'd know all about that, wouldn't you!" Another laugh, and Jake wondered at the gleeful, dark insanity that must bubble up endlessly in the man. What must the man's mind be like? What blasted, twisted lunacy would he see if he used the Touch to try and peer into Walter's being? The idea made him tremble inside. Jake was very young, and there was much he still had yet to learn, but he was wise enough to realize there are some things no one should know.

"Your life cost me my sigul, brat. The prophecy went unfulfilled. No red heel! Now only two things bear the sigul needed to gain the Tower. I need them. I'll have them, boy. Just as I'll have your dinh dead. For all he's done to ruin my plans, to destroy those I wanted – I'll have him dead. And claim the Tower he so coveted for my own."

_Eddie and Susannah split off from Roland behind one of the buildings, moving into flanking positions on opposite sides of Pleasantville Street. Oy was with Eddie, trotting ahead of the young man, completely focused on the coming battle, golden eyes bright. The gunslinger was reloading his guns, the mythical guns that bore the mark of Eld, preparing for this one last battle against his oldest enemy._

Jake could see them, each of them, with amazing clarity; Eddie to his left and Susannah to his right, crouching in the buildings around them. Oy growling at the sight of Walter. Roland, face bathed in shadow as his fingers swung the nickel plated barrel back into place. Sensed the ache in Roland's hip, the breeze teasing Suze's hair, the itch on Eddie's shin, and felt a rush of love for them so fierce and overpowering that all fear left him. If ka decided this was his day to die, then so be it. In his previous life in New York he'd died alone. If he found the clearing at the end of the path today, at least he'd die loved.

"And so love will destroy creation." The creature above him smiled; Jake could feel it. More, could feel Walter's growing confidence, could feel Roland's approaching steps.

"**Roland, come to me! Come, and face your enemy! The true maker of your destiny!"** The man behind him moved with hellish speed, seizing both of Jake's arms behind his back and raising the barrel of the pistol so that it grazed the boy's left temple.

"Time is short! I'm going to count to, oh, let's say, _Nineteen_, and if you haven't appeared by then, I'm going to blow his head off!"

"_ONE_! I only wish Dick Clark was here, to help us count. _TWO_! Guess we're going to find out how much Roland really loves you, 'Bama. _THREE_! I must admit, I'm curious. Roland's straight as a stick, but you are a pretty child, and you were alone in the desert together, and Roland is so very fond of you _– FOUR!_"

Walter continued in this vein, but Jake ignored him, letting the wind carry the words away into Thunderclap, waiting for Roland to appear on the horizon. As he stood with the pistol to his head, hearing the Man in Black's ramblings Jake realized something about Roland and Walter, inconsequential as it was. Even if Roland and Walter had not been sworn enemies, destined by ka, they would have hated each other anyway. Roland would have been exasperated and infuriated by Walter's endless prattle, and Walter would have found the gunslinger dull and slow.

Even as the count passed on (TEN!) Jake never doubted that Roland was going to come. He could feel it in his heart, could smell it on the wind.

The wind kicked up a particularly viscous gust, rolling one of the splayed bodies off the board sidewalk, striking the street with an indescribable thump and causing the boy's eyes to sting with tears. (ELEVEN!)

He blinked them away and saw the figure standing at the far end of the street, seeming to materialize out of the blowing sand and wind. Hat pulled low over his cool blue shooter's eyes; eyes that had seen a thousand battles and as many years. The dusty no color of his shirt, the lined, weathered face, the worn blue jeans – and the guns of Eld, holstered low on his hip.

The wind blew.

The wizard smiled, arm tightening around the boy's throat.

The boy swallowed, head held high, feeling the fate of this and other worlds hang in the balance.

The gunslinger approached and the Tower trembled on its ground.

* * *

He could see smoke on the horizon

_(Mejis)_

Smell blood on the wind

_(Jericho Hill)_

Taste burning sand on his tongue

_(The way station)_

Could see, even at this fair distance, the unholy glee on Walter's face

_(Go and find your hand)_

And the pistol he held to Jake's

_(This changes everything_)

Temple. The boy's face was aware but set, unafraid

_(Your little te-ka's life over the pleasure of my company!)_

And as the gunslinger approached, he saw the boy's eyes regarding him calmly. The wind whipped the sand into whirling dust devils around his boots. Behind he could hear the mourning wails of one of the breakers over her dead husband, the endless blat of the alarm _(Lud)_ the cries of the few remaining guards, the occasional shots as Eddie and Susannah finished off those alive enough to pose a threat. He heard it all, processing each sound (Dinky helping Ted to his feet, Ted resisting Dinky's efforts to take him inside) in the back of his mind, but in the real part of him, they had ceased to exist. To matter. All that mattered was this street, his enemy, and his guns.

The gunslinger walked toward them, not hurrying, not dallying, each footstep as authoritative in the silence as the pound of a judges gavel. Hat pulled low enough on his head that when he finally stopped, about twenty feet away, all Jake could see were the gunslinger's eyes.

* * *

"Hile, Roland of Gilead! Long days and pleasant nights!" Walter laughed merrily, and why not! He was beyond merry, beyond elation. He was about to be given everything he'd ever wanted; his way to the Tower was to be opened while Roland's was closed. All the worlds that had ever been or would be were at his fingertips. Within close reach, just like – well, just like the guns on Roland's hips. No need for the foretold Dan-Tete, not now. Perhaps the prophecy had been wrong.

Or, Walter thought, tightening his arm around the ka-baby's throat, perhaps not. For if Roland acted as Walter now believed he would (He'd been mistaken under the mountains, Walter realized now, and fortunate for him the gunslinger had chosen to rescue the boy instead of creating the expected paradox) the boy he held captive in his arms, Roland's true son, would be his dinh's doom.

As if hearing Walter's thoughts (although Roland didn't have the Touch, not even a spark of it) the gunslinger spoke to him.

"Release my son. Or answer to my hand."

"No 'hey, how are you'? No 'Long time no see?' Always straight and to the point with you, Roland. It used to drive your mother crazy."

Roland's expression didn't change, but the feral expression on Walter's face brightened. "You remember your mother, don't you, Roland? You killed her like the lummox you are, but not before I'd had her every way possible." He winked. "Fucked your mother, Roland. Fucked her hard." His smiled grew even as a small thorn of irritation pricked him at the man's impassiveness.

He ignored the small irritation; Roland was just being his usual dull self, was all. With his pistol to Jake's vulnerable temple, not even Roland's blazing speed could beat him before he could pull the trigger and send the boy to the clearing at the end of the path. Which meant he had Roland Deschain at his mercy (which was really quite funny, considering he had none) and as his captive audience, it was too delicious not to savor.

Not moving his eyes an inch from Walter's, the gunslinger spoke, hands still at his sides. It had been folly to address Walter anyway.

"Jake?"

Blue eyes only a shade darker than his own watched him calmly.

"He wants your guns. To claim the door to the Tower. He'll kill me if you don't surrender them. One in my head, then he'll aim for your eyes and try to get a shot off before you can." Despite the situation Jake smiled, feeling the shock reeling off of Walter. "You're not the only one who can read minds, asshole."

It was true. Walter was wearing something he thought of as a thinking cap, and it had made Jake's glimpses into the creature's mind (but not too deep, he didn't want to see the core of Walter mind) difficult – at first. It also explained why he'd failed to detect the creature on the arryo path in the Calla so long ago.

But physical contact opened a window that the thinking cap could not entirely block, and Walter's thoughts and plans had become clearer and louder the longer he held his arm around the boy's neck. Jake could see them.

He saw Walter's plans, saw other things as well, such as why he hadn't brought Black Thirteen with him for this confrontation with Roland. Surely , it was a mischievous, malignant object – but Walter O'Dim loved mischief. But it was also the eye of the King, and Walter didn't want Los the Red witnessing his treason. Crazy the old man might be, fou, but Walter didn't want the King to know. So he had left perhaps the most dangerous object in all the universes in a derelict, abandoned traincar (was it named Charlie, Jake wondered? Charlie the Choo Choo?") On the tracks of the Devar Toi.

"You spoil my surprises, brat." Walter spoke jestingly, but both Roland and Jake sensed genuine irritation underneath. He dug the arm around Jake's throat a little tighter, flashing Roland a quick wink. "But tell the truth and shame the devil, he's right! A swap, Gabby, 'tween you and me. Even steven. The guns of your father for the life of your new son." A pause. "The horn I'll let you keep."

The smile fell away, and for a moment Roland could glimpse the madness that dwelt behind the creature's dark eyes. Could see it very well, aye. Had they not both lived hundreds of years, seen generations form and pass, crumbling to dust? What man could see such things and not lose some part of himself? Roland was grateful for his lack of imagination.

Ka, the gunslinger mused, is a wheel.

It wasn't in his nature to question why or grapple along with the choice before him and even now, with worlds hanging on his decision, he did not agonize over it. He'd known what his choice would be from the instant he'd set foot on this deserted street – no, longer, since that seminal moment under the mountains – and, in the end, ka would tell, as it always did.

As always seemed to happen when confronted with a fork in the road, Cort's roughened voice sounded in his head.

"_The man who takes a weapon he hasn't earned will meet his end at it, more often than not."_

Walter's eyes gleamed in triumph as Roland's hands fell to his hips, not on the sandlewood revolvers but the leather straps tying the holsters in place. Jake tried to keep a Watch Me face, but the gunslinger could see the sorrow there. Roland couldn't deny the shaft of pain that went through his heart as he freed the holsters, feeling the weight of the guns inside, the scrolls on the barrels flashing back at him, glinting in the artificial sun. Pistols made from the blade of Excalibur, had crossed burning deserts and barren wastelands and doorways to other worlds. Pistols that carried the sigul that opened the Tower that stood in the field of Roses, that he was now offering to his oldest enemy. Rage and grief and defilement should have been roaring through his blood, the blood of Eld, at the thought of the Monster touching them – but the choice was made. It was all written, somewhere.

He held the guns of his father out, offering them to Walter O' Dim.

* * *

Jake felt no fear, not even with Walter's pistol socked against his temple, but a wave of grief swept over him when Roland held out his holsters, revolvers still inside them, creaking in the leather, to Walter. Grief, and something else. Awe, he supposed. Sometimes he wondered what on earth ka had been thinking when it had chosen him to help save the Tower. Caught between Roland and Walter, ancient enemies that had each lived over a thousand years, experienced battles and possessed knowledge that he could never match, Jake felt … twelve. The men before him had saved and destroyed worlds and wielded powers he couldn't even fathom. He stood witness to this, their final battle, watching in awe. It was like watching Napoleon fight Wellington at Waterloo, Holmes confront Moriarty, Achilles slay Hector.

That ka had chosen him to witness this seemed the most fantastic idea to grasp in this whole business – more than robotic bears, psychotic trains, Beams and Breakers. No one had ever wanted him. Not his parents, anyway – until he came here. And now Roland was offering Walter the keys to the kingdom – all the kingdoms of the world – in exchange for Jake's life. As Roland reverently laid the weapons on the ground, Jake shook his head, one though resounding in his brain; _"I am not worth it."_

The gunslinger arched an eyebrow at him, backing away from the weapons, and Jake realized he had heard the thought. Roland's answer was as dry as a November leaf.

"Ka will say. _Make it_ worth it."

"I've fulfilled my part, Marten that was." And how galling it must be for Roland, confronting this man who had deceived his father and allowed the death of his mother! So Jake thought, not understanding, even after all this time, how cold Roland's blood could run when the battle rage took him. His blood was even older than the guns he offered.

"Release mine." Something about this jogged Jake's memory, but the connection was slow. Suddenly he remembered; riding home from the Rocking B, hearing Pere Callahan tell his story to the rest of the ka-tet at the rectory, seeing the Priest's confrontation with the vampire Barlow in his mind's eye.

Ka was a wheel, the wind whispered, and while it was true, this whole wash, rinse, repeat business was really getting a little ridiculous, in Jake's opinion.

Walter O' Dim watched the gunslinger back away from the guns of Eld in disbelief. The descendants of Excalibur itself lay in the rancid dust of Thunderclap, his for the taking. After all the traps, all the plans and battles and centuries, the Tower was his for the taking.

And he owed it to the brat before him. Heart pounding in his chest, looking at the guns lying on the dust with far more lust than he'd ever felt for Gabrielle Deschain, Nadine Cross, or any other woman, he bit back a scream of triumph. He'd emit it only when he'd used Roland's guns to enter the Tower itself, and become Lord of All.

Swallowing past his suddenly dry throat, one arms till tightly wrapped around the boy's neck, the other holding the gun to the boy's temple, he urged his captive forward. Gods, he could almost smell the roses at world's end, touch the sooty stone. "Fetch me my prize, boy, and I'll release you. For we've made a promise, Praise the turtle! Remember? 'On his back all vows are made.'"

He watched the gunslinger with fever bright eyes, every step taking him closer to his ultimate goal. "No reneging, Roland! Your guns for your boy; if either of your mollies throw an ambush now, I'll shoot your ka-babby in half a heartbeat. Or maybe I'll gutshot him. Would you like that, Roland? Sometimes they can survive for days – unlike those tossed on the Charyou Tree! – screaming in agony as they bleed out. Or you might have to finish him off yourself."

The boy stopped in front of the guns. Roland, unarmed for the first time in Marten's long, long memory, since before his manhood test – watched them coolly.

"Fetch me my weapons, little trailhand." He traced the gun down the back of Jake's head, resting it at the base of his neck. One shot would sever the head which sat atop it. "For the Tower calls, and there are other worlds than these."

* * *

"The other breakers –"

"Never mind them now!" Ted snarled, seizing Dinky around the elbow, dragging him away from the milling, confused Breakers gathering in the Mall, listening to the warble of the fire alarm and watching the plumes of smoke raise into the already ashen sky. "Have you seen—"

"Beam says Thankya!" Sheemie Ruiz's voice broke in between them before Ted could ask. "Beams Says not too late, say thankya, but the job not done. The Ageless Stranger –"

"Not now, Sheemie!" Ted cut him off, running down the landscaped green towards Pleasantville, holding his wounded shoulder, the others keeping pace with him. Closer to the Damli house, Dani Rostov saw them break away and ran after then as fast as her twelve year old legs could carry her. "The Beam might not matter if we don't help them right now!" With one gritty hand, Ted pointed the way the wind was blowing down Pleasantville's artificial, clapboard, Disney-esque Main Street.

He held out one hand to Sheemie, one to Dinky (Dani, having just run up to them breathless, stood between the two younger men.) "Take my hands. This time we're going to break something that deserves it, if ka will allow us."

* * *

As he knelt Jake saw what Walter, so confident at the moment of his triumph, did not; the small circle of breakers along the path of the Beam, gathering their power. Understood that they might – might – be able to give them a split second to save the guns and the Tower.

He wrapped his own small hand along the leather strap of Roland's holster, leather tailored and fashioned in Gilead, a land long dead, waiting for that split second. If he missed it, he'd die. They'd all die. Unknowing, a small smile started at the corners of his mouth. Kneeling, Jake waited for his one chance.

Roland saw Jake go to one knee, Walter's pistol unwavering, pointed at the back of the boy's vulnerable neck. Saw the smile bloom incredibly on the boy's tired face as he reached for the holsters. He felt his stomach tighten, knowing the boy wasn't going to try something foolish, knowing he wouldn't be able to stop him if he did. Fast as the boy was, he could never surprise Walter alone.

* * *

Then Walter – Flagg – Marten Broadcloak that was – screamed as a bolt of pure agony shot through his head like an arrow – such as the one that he had used to kill Cuthbert Allgood, all those centuries ago. Or one shot by Thomas, in the kingdom of Delain, in another life.

* * *

The bolt of sizzling energy Dani, Ted, Sheemie and Dinky had sent at Walter should have been enough to end him, but Walter was old and not without powerful dark magic of his own. The blow that would have felled any mortal man did not stop his breath but sent him reeling backwards, one lineless hand clasped to his splitting forehead, a trickle of blood seeping from one ancient eye. The pistol he'd held against Jake's neck wavered, giving the boy the split second he needed.

Jake felt the gun slip; heard the rattle of bootheels as Walter staggered back a step. The instant the barrel left his skin he tightened his hand on the leather holster, moving with the eerie speed Roland had awoken in him, hands a blur, swinging the holster in a great arc, its shadow traveling on the ground as Roland caught it, seizing and drawing the remaining gun with speed no one, living or dead, could match.

Jake held the other. It was the first time he'd ever had one of Roland's guns in his hands, and even as he pitched forward, somersaulting and bringing the gun up to bear on Walter's own weapon, he marveled at its weight.

* * *

Sweat was pouring down Dinky's pockmarked face, tears seeping from the corners of Dani's blue eyes. Ted's jaw clenched, Sheemie's smiled shadowed with effort. The initial blast had been the easy part. Now that the tables had turned and the gunslingers had regained their weapons, Walter, second in command to the Crimson King, wanted only to flee as he had done a thousand times before when things went bad. And he could. He could because he was quasi immortal, both there and not there in a thousand worlds and at a thousand times.

_He darkles. He tincts_.

And so now they bore down on each other's hands, exerting all their power – power that had nearly destroyed the Beams, the Tower the Beams held and all the worlds within it – to hold Walter to the fate ka had decreed for him. To meet his end at the hands of the line of Eld.

* * *

Jake was moving the instant the leather straps of the holsters left his outstretched, throwing hand and as Roland caught Jake's throw, drawing his gun and swinging it up to end Walter's life, the boy was rolling away from Walter's feet and bringing the other gun up.

The Gunslinger could feel the growing force of the Breaker's behind him, holding Walter o' Dim, Marten that was, in this world, in front of their guns.

Both the gunslinger and the boy fired a single shot, each with the ancient guns with the sandlewood grips.

Both shots were true, blindingly fast, and both reached their target at the same instant.

The bullets did as bullets do, striking the dark clothed figure silhouetted against Thunderclap's sky, penetrating skin and bone and severing life with brutal, painful force.

Roland's bullet struck Walter's chest, exploding his enchanter's heart. Jake's caught the pistol that the creature had, until seconds ago, been holding to the boy's head before following its upward trajectory and taking the creature in his laughing throat.

So did Walter O' Dim meet his end at the hands and guns of the line of Eld, beneath Thunderclap's dark sky and artificial sun. The destroyer of worlds, architect of Roland's ka (_while you travel with the boy, the man in black travels with your soul in his pocket)_ the man known as legion breathed his last with his blood chokingly hot in his throat, feeling the magic betray him.

The Man in Black fell dead in Thunderclap, and the gunslinger watched.

* * *

"Where's the Pere?"

Jake asked from the circle of Susannah's arms. She and Eddie had mobbed Jake when they'd first seen him, a few minutes after the end of Walter. The rest of the guards had been dispatched, Eddie had reported, one hand clutching Jake's, the other around his wife's shoulders.

Oy kept trying to climb into the boy's lap; a difficult task, given that he was standing up. Finally Roland took pity on the animal, picking him off the ground and holding him out to Jake.

Eyes shining brighter than any Roland had ever seen, the bumbler burrowed his way down the boy's shirt before resting his long neck contentedly against the boy's shoulder. It may have been a trick of the light, but Eddie could have sworn he saw tears in the bumbler's eyes. Hell, he could feel tears in his own. Their ka-tet was reunited.

"And it feels so good!" He laughed, squeezing Jake's hand tighter. Behind them, the wind blew Walter's black cloak in the dust.

"The door took him to the New York of '99" It was Roland, of course, who brought them back to business. "Mayhap we'll find him when we travel, but our job with the writer comes first."

He caught Jake's look of confusion and smiled. It felt astonishingly natural. "We'll explain on the way. Now we need Sheemie to send us on."

The smile fell away, and every member of his ka-tet and many of the breakers could sense the aching weariness there. "It's to Maine in '99 we'd have you take us, old friend. For this beam may be saved, but the job's not done."

Jake felt a chill in his heart as Roland's eyes passed over them, looking along the path of the beam. "Aye, the job's not done."

* * *

End notes:

Due to this story's lack of Mordred, I decided to emphasize Flagg's contributions instead. In DT7, Flagg plans to take Morded's heel and use it to gain entrance to the Tower, but is killed instead. The change here is, of course, with no Mordred (because Roland never let Jake die) Flagg has to find a new way into the Tower. I also just really, really wanted to see this archetypical confrontation between the two in the series and never really got to. Also, Flagg, on a whim, executes the already wounded but not dead Pimli Prentiss, which, of course, dramatically changes the future of the ka-tet (particularly Eddie's fate). So we now have a complete ka-tet setting off for Maine of '99.

Solicitations: Any reviews or analysis would be greatly appreciated, considering how pivotal this chapter is in the story. Do you like/dislike the direction/writing/characterization? The changes from canon? I have quite a few readers but less reviews, and I want to hear what you think.

Next Chapter: Maine, 1999. And more death.


	8. The White

Author: Delah

Summary: The Breakers at Algul Siento have been freed, Walter is dead, and the ka-tet remains intact. But the Tower is still not safe as long as Stephen King's life is under threat. Maine in '99.

Warnings: Character Death

Disclaimer: See Previous Chapters

* * *

Roland braced himself against the dashboard of the shopkeeper's truckmobile as Eddie accelerated down the gravel road. He could hear the sweet singing of the beam – and the increasing desperation in those beautiful voices. The other members of his ka-tet could sense it as well, had been able to ever since Sheemie had sent them here.

Susannah sat beside Eddie, dark eyes gazing fiercely out the windshield, watching for the writer. Eddie sat in the driver's seat, speeding the truckmobile at a rate that was certainly too fast to be safe. Next to Roland, Jake sat, silent and pale, one hand petting a panting Oy, the other pressed against the dashboard right next to Roland's, as the two tried to maintain their balance in the swaying truck.

Not even when Eddie swerved around a corner and the truck rocked from side to side did Jake allow his hand to slip and touch Roland's, but the gunslinger would not think of this until later. Now his world had narrowed to the stretch of road that was Turtleback Lane and the man King's bondservant had told them would be there, ignoring the song he had been created to write.

Thank the Gods Eddie knew how to drive the shopkeeper's truckmobile, or they would have had to draft someone else. They were very close, now. Roland could feel it.

* * *

Until his dying day, Eddie Dean would curse himself for what happened next. Whether it was ka or not (and, deep in his heart, he believed it was) it didn't change the fact that it had happened, and that someone had died because of it.

The fact of the matter was this; Eddie had never driven a truck seventy miles per hour down a gravel road in his life. Had never driven on a dirt road at all before the unfound door had blown him, Suze and Roland here to meet John Cullum and Stephen King less than a week ago; (there was a shocking lack of dirt roads in Brooklyn). Ka or not, what happened next was simple; he lost control.

Jake had just cried "There he is! Stop!" when the rear wheels of the truck struck a washboard, then another. The back end of the truck began to fishtail. Eddie, reacting instinctively, slammed a foot on the brake, but the momentum was too much. The truck continued its spin, spewing gravel and dirt in the air as it teetered on the edge of the road, and then rolled in a blur of crunching metal.

* * *

Everything happened so cussedly _fast_ – one minute King's silhouette appeared on the far end of the road, at the bottom of the hill (from which any moment Bryan Smith's van would appear) the next the truck was spinning, then rolling, crunching metal and breaking glass sounding in their ears. Eddie turned and braced himself around Susannah as the truck rolled, trying to protect her. Roland did the same with Jake, grabbing the boy in a bear hug (even as the boy clutched Oy to his chest) with one long arm and bracing himself against the roof of the truckmobile with the other. Knowledge flooded him as he did so; he could feel the boy's pounding heart and Jake's resolve even as the truck finished its motions and rested upside down, the engine still running. The world now incredibly silent, except for the cry of the Beam.

Then, before Roland could check on his ka-tet to make sure they were ok, Jake was moving.

* * *

The impact of the roll had crunched the doors shut and dented in the roof of the truck. Eddie lay twisted, half on top of an unconscious Susannah, half behind the wheel; still alive and probably ok, but struggling to regain consciousness after a fierce blow to his head from the driver's side window. Roland felt no new pain – just the old, familiar agony in his head and his hip. He felt despair rise inside of him. The doors of the truck might open, but if not … they were trapped now, able only to watch as King (who was just now beginning to turn at the sound of their crash, turning away from the direction Bryan Smith's van would come) met his end and the Tower fell.

Then Jake was moving, moving with the speed only a gunslinger could match. Trying to get out. Not through the doors, which were stuck, but through the back window, which was shattered and twisted and also crunched down, too small for an adult man or woman to squeeze through, but just large enough for a child.

The boy was halfway through the shattered window, wriggling through on his back, before Roland, ignoring the screaming pain in his hip and splitting ache in his head (also ignoring for the moment Eddie's soupy moans and Susannah's unconsciousness) reached out and seized the boy's ankle. He'd seen Jake's mind as the truck rolled and knew what he meant to do – but Roland wouldn't allow him. _Couldn't_ allow him, not matter the stake.

"I won't let you go, Jake."

Beyond them, King was still standing watching the overturned truck with shock. In a moment, he would process in his mind what his eyes had seen and move towards them, but now he stood frozen. And the van was approaching over the next hill.

Less than ten seconds had passed since Eddie lost control of the vehicle.

Jake smiled at him. It was sad, that smile, but there were no tears in his eyes. It broke Roland's heart, a little, because it was also an adult's smile.

"Father," said he, his blue eyes meeting Roland's own, "the choice is not yours to make. Not anymore."

With strength Roland couldn't match (was it the Beam, he wondered, or Gan?) Jake twisted his foot free of Roland's grip, pulling himself out of the window, the bag of Oriza's temporarily catching on the shattered frame of the window until Jake tugged it free with one hand. Jumped down off the overturned truck, sprinting towards the stunned figure standing by the road and the van now heading towards them both.

* * *

"Jake, no!" Eddie and Roland screamed in unison as the boy darted, quick as a deer, along the tree line to where the writer stood on the side of the road, gaping at the truck and now at the blonde haired boy sprinting towards him, wearing what appeared to be a leather newsboy's pouch over one shoulder.

Roland felt it then, strong as he ever had at Jericho Hill or under the mountains; Ka-shume. The breaking of the tet was at hand. Death for one of his own was at hand. Trapped inside the bucka wagon, Roland could only watch as Ka played itself out.

"Open your be-damned DOOR!" he bellowed at Eddie, but even as the younger man moved, Roland knew that it was too late.

* * *

"All things serve the Beam." So Roland had heard since his earliest days, and so he believed. Even the smallest things – loose dirt, the fall of a feather, call of a horn, or in this case, the leather strap of a bag of Oriza's, tough and well stitched by the skilled hand of the now dead Margaret Eisenhart – served ka, the Beams, and the Tower.

Roland had been questing after the Tower for centuries, had been trained by Cort Andrus, had the blood of the Eld running through his veins. All of which explained why he saw what Jake, brave but young and inexperienced, never did. His focus narrowed to a laser point on the writer whose life he was determined to save, even at the expense of his own, Jake didn't see the lone figure emerge from the copse of trees by the side of the road. Didn't see the white haired man reach out two gnarled, but still powerful hands and seize the business end of the bag of Oriza's as the boy attempted to run past.

Jake Chambers had always been small for his age. The boy probably didn't weight 95 pounds completely clothed, fully sho'd, and sopping wet. Long months on the trail, with hard miles and few large meals, had kept the boy whip cord slender and light.

Pere Callahan had done hard labor, both before and after his long years as a priest; unloading bushels of apples, crates of potatoes, roofing and hauling and farming both in the world he had been born and the Calla he had adopted as his home. There was a time, not so long ago, when he could have bench pressed almost twice Jake's weight. Now he seized the Oriza bag and yanked, pulling and twisting, using all the strength in his body to spin the boy around like a yo yo (catching a glimpse of the boy's complete and utter shock in his eyes; the Touch, at least, hadn't warned Jake about this) and releasing the leather at the arc of his swing.

It was no contest. The boy gunslinger went flying in the opposite direction he believed ka wanted him to go; away from the writer, away from the van, away from the Pere, who released him and then raced towards the stunned writer and the approaching van.

* * *

It was the Pere who reached the writer a split second before the van hit them, the Pere's old body that absorbed the hit, that was tossed underneath the van's wheels while the Ka's Ka Gan rolled into rut beside the road, banging his head on a rock.

"PERE!" Jake screamed from his knees on the opposite side of the road, scratched, bleeding hands clutching the rich, dark earth below him. Donald Frank Callahan lay still at the rear of the stopped van.

All this Roland saw as he managed to pull himself free of the cursed truckmobile, maneuvering out of the door he and Eddie had forced open, moving with more ease now that the pain in his hip and head were gone back to their rightful owner.

Eddie, Susannah draped around his shoulders, struggled out after him, but Roland ignored them both after a cursory glance reassured him that Susannah would recover. He saw the others as well – aye, the writer, the driver of the van, the fallen priest lying on the ground behind the van and the boy on his knees, blood on his hands and tears on his cheeks, and ignored all but the latter.

Moving with his eerie speed, no twinge of pain now, the gunslinger pulled Jake to his feet, seeing the scratches and bloody scrapes his climb through the shattered glass of the windshield had given him. Never – not in a thousand years or a thousand battles – had he ever felt like this.

The blood that ran through his veins was cold, so cold. It was a wonder his heart didn't freeze. Seeing the boy's shocked, tear stricken face, his wounded eyes. He rested one hand on Jake's cheek and neck, felt the rapid thrum of the boy's pulse and the heartbeat it kept its rhythm to, and his tenuous control snapped.

He raised his whole right hand and slapped Jake across the face.

* * *

The blow didn't draw blood, Roland' heart was grateful for that, but it did nothing to abate the coldness inside him, either. He grasped the boy's thin shoulders in a brutal grip (that night, as Jake showered, he counted ten mottled bruises on his shoulders and upper arms, perfectly matched to the gunslinger's calloused fingers) and shook him hard enough to rock the boy on his unsteady feet. In the bag that had proved his salvation, the remaining 'Riza's clattered back and forth.

"You disobeyed me." The gunslinger didn't think he'd ever heard his own voice so cold. He half expected the words to fall frozen to the ground halfway out of his mouth, frozen in ice. He shook his head. It wasn't enough. "Thee _defied _me."

"Yes." The eyes the boy turned up to him held no anger, no hurt or disbelief from the blow that was even now staining Jake's cheek red in the shape of Roland's palm. There was no shame or regret in the boy's voice, no attempt to excuse himself, and despite everything Roland could appreciate that.

Jake met Roland's cold blue eyes with his own solemn ones. "You command my obedience, Father, and I cry your pardon. But … all things serve the Beam."

Yes, Roland could hear it now. The voice of the Beam, exulting in joy.

The gunslinger dropped to his knees, pulled the boy into his arms, feeling the steady beat of Jake's heart against his chest. He took the boy's face in his hands, turned it, and kissed the stricken cheek.

He could feel the boy's tears, catching on the palms of his hands.

"I told you. I'd not lose you. No matter how many worlds there are."

Jake smiled at him, more tears falling from the corners of his eyes. Oy had raced up to them both, his gold ringed eyes bright with worry, but he didn't speak.

"You won't lose me, Roland. Not now." He scrubbed one dirty hand across his wet eyes, gaze inevitably falling on the figure of Donald Callahan, lying in the road. "The Pere –" Jake choked back a sob.

"Go to him, Jake. See to our friend. I have to deal with King." He gestured to the other man lying on the opposite side of the road. But for a moment the gunslinger lingered, reluctant to release the boy's shoulders, to allow him out of arms reach.

It could just as easily have been Jake lying on the road at the rear end of the van, been Jake that was dying. The Tower had chosen, Roland knew, and Roland was swept by gratitude.

Eddie had carried Susannah (who was regaining consciousness) outside of the overturned truckmobile and was ordering the driver of the van to move it away from Sai King. Behind him, Jake and Oy knelt by Pere Callahan. Satisfied (a bite of grief for the Pere hit him as he turned away) Roland turned to the writer.

* * *

"Pere?"

The former priest, Father Donald Callahan of Salem's Lot, turned his head. The life was leaving him, but there was no pain.

'_Beloved, I am being poured out like a libation._' Who was that? Oh yes, St. Paul to Timothy. The next verse was even more appropriate. '_The time of my departure is almost at hand._' He could feel it in the song of the Beam, in the weakening of his body, could see it in Jake's eyes.

The boy took one the Pere's hands – old, calloused, twisted with arthritis but still strong enough – between his own small ones. Oy watched the boy with a look of calm adoration, then bent his neck to lick the blood off of the Pere's face.

"Can I help you with the pain?"

He smiled. "There is no pain, Jake. Just the turning of the page. My part in the story is almost done."

More tears spilled out of the boy's eyes. No, no pain. Only the feeling of the grace, and the beautiful song of the Beam.

"I've done this before, Jake. Like a wise man once said, it's déjà vu all over again." Oy barked out what Callahan would have sworn was a laugh; Jake sobbed, his hands clutching the Pere's in a death grip.

"It should have been me!" And now Callahan could see the shock behind the boy's very real grief and sorrow. In some part of his mind, Jake believed he should be the one dying again, not the Pere. "It was supposed to be me!"

Callahan lifted one arm – God, but it was heavy! – and touched the boy's smooth cheek, shaking Jake's head from side to side. "No, Jake. It was never supposed to be you. Not on this level of the Tower." He smiled again. The inexpressibly lovely sound of the Beams hummed around him.

"But—"

"No. This is –"he swallowed, the taste of blood on his tongue. "You've never been damned, so you've no idea how sweet redemption is." He could feel the pull of the Beam as never before. He hadn't been able to talk with King, as he'd intended when he'd been shot through the unfound Door to New York less than two weeks ago, but he'd managed to help save the universe. All universes, so his regrets were few.

"Two miles south there's a Crown Victoria parked by the side of the road. There's money and keys under the seat. You'll need—"he broke off, another coughing spell twisting his lungs – "you'll need to go to New York. To a place called the Tet Corporation. They'll help you as they helped me." Blood flew from his lips as he coughed again. It was almost over. _Beloved, I am being poured out like a libation_. Yes. If ka will say so, let it be so.

"Pere," the boy held his hands, and over his shoulder Callahan could see that Roland had left the writer and moved on to the driver of the van. "How did you know about the accident? How did you know to be here?"

For the last time in that life, Donald Frank Callahan laughed.

"Because ka wanted me to know. I went to see the rose, Jake. And when I got there, they knew me … 'twas Sai Holmes that told me, but was ka that told him." Dark gray eyes glanced around, taking in the sunstruck, verdant clearing where his path had ended. He held the boy's warm hands in his own cold ones as he closed his eyes, the words of the scripture – _'I have been true, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith'_ – accompanying him as he was lifted among the Beam.

* * *

Notes: So passes Donald Frank Callahan, of the White. Without Mia, Mordred, and Black 13 (not to mention Jake's company) Callahan's time in '99 is very different from what we saw in Song of Susannah. No WTC and no Dixie Pig, but Callahan did get to see the rose and the Tet Corporation, and received information there that he used to save King and help the others. This chapter also helped me resolve some issues I had with the Tet Corporation in the actual books; if they knew of King's upcoming death, why the _hell _didn't they do anything to save him themselves, or help the Roland and Jake once they arrived? Ka, probably, but it still irked me the first time I read DT7.

Being a (former) priest, I believed it appropriate for Callahan's death scene to include scripture, and found St. Paul's letter to Timothy to be very appropriate.

I apologize this chapter took so long; tell the truth, I had been hoping for more reviews before posting it. This story has only twenty reviews but three to four times that number of author/story alerts/favorite story notices. And while I appreciate those as well, an actual concrete review can't be topped.

So, the Beams are saved, King is safe, and the ka-tet is intact, although in Keystone Earth. There is only one chapter left of this story, concerning certain parts of the latter half of DT7 and, of course, the Tower, and what is to be found there.


	9. Chapter 9

Author: Delah

Notes: This chapter would have been out sooner but new babies take a lot of time. And sleep. And laundry. And patience. And time. Anyway, thanks to all my readers.

After weeks – months – years – of sleeping on the ground, except for their brief time in the Calla, even the lumpy mattress at the cheap motel they slept at that night was heavenly. The money the Pere had left them (along with the note and the car) was more than enough for a nicer hotel, but they all agreed that they had to make sure it lasted as long as possible. The two adjoining rooms smelled of mildew and burnt popcorn, but no one complained. It was enough, more than enough, that the ka-tet remained intact.

Roland had spent the entire drive (after they had buried the Pere in a funeral whose memory kept bringing tears to Eddie and Jake's eyes) sitting in the backseat of the Crown Victoria, one arm around the boy's sleeping shoulders. Suze had kept her hand on Eddie's knee as they drove south. Every member of the ka-tet, from Roland to Oy, felt the truth of the situation – they were in uncharted territory; this was different from anything that had come before. They had saved the Beams and the Tower and the ka-tet remained unbroken.

That night Eddie and Susannah slept tightly in each other's arms; on the other side of the thin wall Roland held a vigil, smoking the last of his Calla tobacco as he watched Jake and Oy sleep curled around each other under the thin motel blanket under the glammer of the strengthening beam.

Susannah's joy at her reunion with Papa Mose, coupled with the song of the saved Rose, reduced both Eddie and Jake to tears. They held palaver with him and the other members of the Tet Corporation; gifts and thanks given and received. Then they were taken to the Dixie Pig, which had been shut down by the authority of the NYPD with the unofficial backing of the Tet Corporation. It was a relief for all of them, to walk through the door to Fedic into Roland's world, their home, holding hands.

The cold between Fedic and the Castle of the King was hardest on Susannah, who thought longingly of steaming hot baths and woolen mittens. Then Eddie would wrap his arms around her and kiss her neck, and she would feel warm enough again.

Roland alone seemed utterly unsurprised at the imprisonment of the Crimson King on side of the Tower. Prison pent.

After they'd finished the long, exhausting task of shooting and skinning the deer, not to mention sewing new gloves, leggings and jackets, Eddie joked that they all looked like weird versions of Davy Crockett. Then he spent the next half hour thoroughly annoying Roland (and amusing Jake and Suze) by singing "the Ballad of Davy Crockett" ad nauseum. Oy tried to join in, but could only get out "Avy Ockkit."

It was Eddie who shot Dandelo after the creature had begun to bewitch Roland, Susannah, and Jake. There had to be something wrong with him, Eddie declared, if Joe Collins of Odd's Lane could make Roland laugh with that shitty material.

Each member of the ka-tet felt shamed for not catching on to their danger sooner; Roland for not seeing the trap at all, Susannah for not trusting her instincts, Jake for not using the Touch.

They sent Jake to coax Patrick from his cage because he looked the least threatening and because his Touch could reassure the poor, imprisoned, mute boy better than anything else – save Oy, who captivated the artist from the very beginning. They camped warm and happy in the barn, and when Lippy came back Roland shot him, but this time there was no Dan-Tete to sicken himself on the meat, because on this level of the Tower Roland brought Jake out from under the mountains.

As they walked through the fields of No-Ken-Ka-Ray, Eddie and Roland taking turns pulling Susannah and Patrick in the cart, the gunslinger spoke. For hours he spoke, revealing old stories, old betrayals, old deaths. Faces long forgotten flickered before the eyes of their Dinh's ka-tet, and they understood they had come to a place of atonement.

It was Susannah who discovered The Artist's ability to Draw and Erase when she had him erase the sore from her mouth, but it was Roland who fully understood the implications of the power.

Jake didn't know what was more unsettling; the piercing, hellish shrieks of the Crimson King or the call of the Tower that stood among the field of Roses. They shot sneetches out of the sky and felt the pull of Gan; none more so than Roland, who felt the draw of the stone column with every drop of blood in his veins. He could have asked Jake or Eddie or Susannah to fetch the Rose for him (any one of them would have, for Roland was their Dinh) but he chose to do it himself, mangling his right hand in the process, losing two fingers and a thumb.

The sight filled him with remembrance.

Then the pained shrieks of the son of Arthur Eld filled the air as Patrick mixed blood with roe and erased Los the Red from all worlds.

Roland set the horn to his lips and blew.

The roses responded with a trumpeting blast that rang through End World at Sunset. Eddie and Susannah had ushered Patrick back to the road, telling him to take it back to the Federal. Now they all stood, silent and still as the fallen statues as Roland called out the names of all the lost ones. Every name echoed endlessly through the field of roses; every name sent gooseflesh up Eddie's arms and brought tears to Jake's eyes.

Roland's own name echoed away and his ka-tet watched in awe as the gunslinger unholstered both of his revolvers – the guns of Eld – along with the horn and the silver cross of Talitha Unwin – and laid them at the door to the Tower. For a moment he caressed the stone, his mutilated fingers brushing against the cold, dark stone – and then turned to face Eddie, Susannah, and Jake with Oy in his arms.

Never before had the gunslinger's blue eyes burned so brightly in his weary face; never before had any of them seen such a look of contentment on Roland's face.

Moving quickly, copying Roland, Jake set Oy on the ground and lifted the bag of Oriza's from his shoulder, placing it and the gun he had once handed to Benny Slightman at the foot of the Tower. Eddie and Susannah did the same with their weapons as the last band of gunslingers offered their weapons to the Dark Tower.

Before Roland could lay a hand on the door it swung open, bringing with it the smell of

(grass)

And some indefinable scent that whirled around them and then dissipated. Without speaking, Roland held out his whole left hand – calloused, cracked, marked with age and the names of everyone who had lost their lives to its deadly skill – and Jake took it, holding his own out to Susannah, riding in Eddie's arms. Oy rode inside Jake's shirt, panting rapidly, gold ringed eyes gazing at the boy adoringly.

The gunslinger turned and stepped inside the Tower.

They passed room upon room, floor upon floor, every nineteen steps bringing them up another level, another scene of Roland's life. They were in Can Calyx, the Hall of Resumption, and every room carried another memory of Roland's past. Old betrayals (David) and deaths (Cuthbert) and loves (Susan).

Each story Roland told them slowly, haltingly, each room a brand on his skin. His ka-tet listened in wondering silence, tasting the dust of forgotten towns, hearing the cries of the wounded, smelling the spilt blood of a thousand enemies. Every betrayal, every death, every life tossed away in pursuit of the Tower; Roland told them all.

Some of the rooms which detailed Roland's life included them (Jake saw his own face, heard the rush of the waterfall, and his own scornful, shaken voice, "_You're going to kill me. He killed me the first time and you're going to kill me this time and I think you know it."_ But he did not release his grip on the gunslinger's hand. They followed him, up seemingly miles and miles of stairs, past room after room.

"This is a place of atonement," the gunslinger thought, and Gan answered; "Yes, Roland. But only because you allowed it to be so."

The deepening light found them at the last door at the top of the Tower. _Roland_ inscribed in the High Speech across it. Sunlight peeking out, rose and gun entwined on the shining knob. This sigul Roland caressed with one bloody fingertip. Turned, and looked once more at his ka-tet. One last look at them as they were.

Roland opened the door at the top of the Dark Tower.

Roland of Gilead shook his head, disoriented. The heat, probably. For a moment, he'd believed himself to be inside the Dark Tower itself – Can Calyx, the hall of Resumption – but the Tower was leagues and worlds away, at world's end.

There had been a time in his youth when Gilead's dinh had considered questing after the Tower – was it not the center of the universe, the secret of existence, the unifying essence that bound the White together? But it was a young man's fancy, a dream. The magic of the Prim sang among the Beams and Gilead shone under the will of the White and the rule of Eld. The Beams were strong, the Tower stood true, and the world remained sweet, for there was magic everywhere.

Roland caressed the statue, wrought by Gilead's most skilled artisan, with both hands. Whole hands.

Patrick had captured the beauty of the galloping horse, the tension in its neck, the lovely lines of its muscles. Had managed to capture the young woman above the horse as well, immortalizing her in stone. Lovely face turned upward, strong hands wrapped around the horse's bridle, hair blown across her shoulders. He almost expected her to spring down from the galloping horse and cover his face with kisses.

"Bird and Bear and Hare and Fish." He whispered, one hand warm on the cold stone. Her death, four years ago, had been a terrible shock. To the kingdom and to Roland himself. Those responsible for the fire in the King's stables had been punished, and punished severely, for the King's rage and grief had been great – but Susan, lovely Susan, had left them behind. His wife lost, as so many others – his father, his mother, Cort, Vannay – had been, to the passage of time.

Roland walked towards the castle, the disorientation he had felt earlier ebbing as he walked. The green Great Lawn of Gilead, hearing the click of croquet balls as the women played at Points and the pennons snapping in the hot breeze. Dinh though he was, the man (now tending towards gray) wore no crown; the siguls of his power were inscribed on the horn of Eld he wore on his hip, next to the guns of Steven, his father. The guns themselves were more than symbols and could still mediate justice (as the men who had fired the King's stables had discovered) but Gilead was calm, the world was at peace, and the guns of Eld, fashioned from the sword of Excalibur, were rarely drawn.

Distant laughter interrupted Roland's thoughts. Sitting in the shade among the ash and alder trees sat the newest ka-tel. Forty in all, grouped by age, sitting their backs to the lawn that Roland now crossed.

He paused just outside the circle of trees providing shade and shelter to the children and their teacher. Susannah must have taken them out here to escape the heat of the day; the months before Reap often found the castle humid and stifling. Out here on the mall, there was always hope of a breeze, even if it was a warm one.

"Who knows the legend of Gray Dick and Lady Oriza?" The lovely dark skinned woman asked her students. Many were remarkably attentive, despite the heat of the day and the distraction of their surroundings; others with drooping eyes and stifled yawns were obviously fighting naps.

"John, son of Roland. Do you know the tale?" Susannah's voice lightened almost imperceptibly as she gestured to the young boy seated near her. It was no secret that John – Jake, as his mother had called him – was a favorite of his teacher. Some may have believed she favored him to curry favor with the current ruler of Gilead, (and its future one) but Roland knew better. Susannah pandered to no one, including her husband; her fondness for Jake was genuine affection, and the boy was grateful for it, for he missed his mother terribly.

The boy carefully placed one of the young bumblers from the barn that had been sitting on his lap on the ground and stood, tapping his throat three times.

"Yes, thankee sai." He cleared his throat and began, "A long time ago, in another age –"

Roland watched his son recite the old tale, listening to the cadences as his voice rose and fell. There was so much of Susan in Jake – his golden hair, handsome face and good temper were only the most obvious. He wasn't sure where the boy had inherited his skill with The Touch – it was not strong in the line of Eld; perhaps it came from the Chambers line, she of Susan's mother – but Roland could see himself in the boy's blue eyes and the speed of his hands.

Out of the corner of his own eyes, Roland spied Cuthbert walking across the lawn, heading towards the small group gathered amongst the alder and ash trees. He was smiling, the expression lighting his eyes, and so Roland surmised his trip to the Outer Arc had gone well. Cuthbert's travels had played no small part in contributing to the peace that Gilead now enjoyed; Roland had never met a better diplomat than Cuthbert Allgood. His travels through In-World and Mid-World had also gained him the love his life; meeting Susannah on the roads of Garlan.

"- and may it last ten thousand years." Jake finished as Cuthbert reached the spot where Roland stood.

There they stood, shoulder to shoulder in the late afternoon of full Earth. His hazel eyes sparkled with tales and stories, but, for a wonder, Cuthbert kept his silence and Roland was grateful. A solemn joy had settled over him as he surveyed the people and the land before him.

In the story his son had just told Lady Riza had meant them as a curse, and Roland supposed they were – for those who found themselves in hell. But Roland was not, and he repeated the words Jake had said in a solemn whisper, not in curse but in blessing, as his blue eyes surveyed all that he knew and loved.

"And may it last ten thousand years, and be only the beginning."

Notes: This is strictly only my opinion, but there are really only two different scenarios I envision for Roland's fate upon entering the tower. Should Roland reach the top of the Tower alone, having lost his ka-tet again but having achieved redemption, I see death as his reward – rest, and finding his lost loved ones in the clearing.

In this story, with the ka-tet intact, I emphasized the Tower as the Hall of Resumption, the center of time, to send Roland back, with variations of his ka-tet, to Gilead. It is not a perfect ending – Susan is still dead, and Gilead still has its own struggles – but in DT7, Roland speculates that the healing beams may bring back the homeland he knew and loved.

A lot of ground was covered in this chapter, and if there are readers who are disappointed at the brief snippet style of writing, all I can say is that covering the second half of the TDT would have been impossible. A few readers speculated on the ka-tet's reaction to the Crimson King – Eeeeeeeeeeeee! Again, this is purely my own speculation, but I imagine after having faced deeper, more personal horrors, the ka-tet would find the Crimson King dangerous and terrifying, but not debilitating. I keep seeing Eddie scared but laughing while shooting sneetches out of the sky. In this story I also copied King's _Deus ex machina _in having the Tet corporation clear and clean out the Dixie Pig, allowing the ka-tet a quick, convenient door back to Roland's world.

Thanks to all the readers who reviewed. This entire story grew out of my personal speculation: what if Roland didn't let Jake die under the mountains? How would that one decision (that we revisit again and again in the actual canon series) change the entire course of the saga if it went another way? King himself admitted in an interview a few months ago that it was Roland's dropping Jake that doomed him to another cycle; this story is just my idea of what might happen should Roland make a different choice.

This story is over, but we have The Wind Through the Keyhole to look forward to next year and (possibly) the DT movies. Like you, I can't wait.


End file.
